


The Last Fruit of the Arcan'dor

by kathekon



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft, World of Warcraft - Various Authors
Genre: Alcohol, Blood Elves, Drama, F/F, F/M, Het, M/F, Mind Sex, Oral, Political, Pregnancy, Romance, blood elf dick, bloodthistle use, eroticised pregnancy, mood weather, nightborne, pointy teeth and claws, whump elements, will it fit?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:22:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 31,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27476500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathekon/pseuds/kathekon
Summary: Regent Lord Lor’themar Theron and First Arcanist Thalyssra get lost ‘in the moment’, accidentally conceive, and must deal with the personal and political ramifications in post-rebellion Suramar.
Relationships: Elisande/Thalyssra (Warcraft), Stellagosa/Valtrois (Warcraft), Thalyssra/Lor'themar Theron
Comments: 34
Kudos: 60





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by Reddit discussions of the impending demographic/succession crisis if faction leaders don’t start procreating, of all things.
> 
> I can’t write pwp or fluff so there might be a bit of plot, although there will be explicit sex scenes too, so be advised.

“War has come, war will come again. There are uncertain times, yes, but I am old enough to have watched my people rise and fall and rise once more, and I myself have withered like the winter tree before blossoming anew. In all that time and chaos, I knew sorrow and elation, but I was never fine. I submerged myself completely in the pain and in the pleasure.”

\- Thalyssra, _A Moment in Verse_ , Madeleine Roux

\---

Lor’themar would remember that winter as a string of pearls, widely-spaced but glistening bright, strung out across the ocean between them.

It wasn’t always poetry, much to his relief; he didn’t have an endless repository of sonnets, although from time to time one did spring from his pen into a letter or the margins of his correspondence. Sometimes it was art or architecture, wine or song; this time in Suramar and that time, Silvermoon. The moments they had together were always shorter than they would have liked, but the days were marked in his leather-bound journal, sharpening his anticipation, and his heart leapt every time the mist parted and Astravar Harbour came into view, or a crackle of arcane energy brought his love to his beloved, hard-defended city of the Blood Elves. He loved the way the Eversong sun lay across her skin, shining red through her hair. That visit had been far, far too short, but it brought to mind another memory.

Thalyssra had told him a little about the spellcraft of the Shal’dorei during those tense, watchful nights in Nazjatar, and later, when they became lovers, he learned more of it. The ease with which the Nightborne mages spoke mind-to-mind was foreign to him, and alarming the first time she did it, sliding into his thoughts without permission or warning. She was apologetic when he explained; it was not a custom of the Sin’dorei, and it brought to mind various magical assaults he had weathered over his long years. That had made her truly remorseful, for bringing his past wars into their private time - although it didn’t take him long to get his arousal back. Thalyssra was intoxicating, and allowing her to reach out to him in this way, they were able to create a greater intimacy. Even as their bodies moved together, their minds were entwined; he saw echoes of her memories, her bright, resolute spirit, and he had no doubt that she was also seeing flashes of the true Lor’themar, not the diplomat, the politician, the reluctant leader. 

Then that spun out into another memory – late last year, in Suramar, after that infernal poetry contest with all those cool Shal’dorei eyes on him. It was worth it, though, for what followed.

Even barefoot, Thalyssra stood half-a-head above him; she was tall even for her lofty race, and he had had to tell her never to stoop for him. There had been a little teasing on that point, her short sin’dorei - but it came to an end when they were finally alone; her face when she saw him, all of him – now, that, he would treasure. He was not short where it counted.

The First Arcanist’s lips had parted in surprise, perhaps concern. Lor’themar thumbed his cock, although it didn’t need stirring; the presence of his dusk lily did all that for him. He supposed it wasn’t bad, fully a warrior’s handful and curved proudly upward at the tip - although the thought that what he offered might be found as wanting as his poetry had crossed his mind.

“I promised I’d show you the spires of Silvermoon,” he said, aiming to disarm the tension. She reached out tentatively for him, but paused before touching it.

“I am not sure it will fit,” she had said, very seriously, and then they had laughed together about the lack of poetry in the encounter. In fact, it almost _didn’t_ fit. It was the girth more than anything else; despite Thalyssra’s philosophy of living in the moment, there was still a perpetual tension about her, and it had been a long time since she had had a lover. It had taken reassurance, gentleness, and a not-insubstantial amount of time kneeling between her dusky-dark thighs, unknotting those last vestiges of fear and doubt with his tongue, before she was ready to take all of him.

He remembered finally being able to slide inside his dusk lily right to the hilt, and the way her eyes had widened, her lips parted – but there was no pain, just a sensation that she had not felt in the long, long ages of her life – that of being utterly filled. She was delectably tight around him, but slick as silk, and the groan was involuntary, from deep in his throat, as he pressed his face into her cloud of soft pale hair. He remained absolutely still, letting her get used to him, letting her lead. Hesitantly at first, but soon eagerly, she began to rock her hips, and following her, he rose to meet her.

It was enchanting; her deep plum-dark nipples brushed his firm chest as she rose and fell against him, the curve in his cock finding that ridged place within her that made her breath hitch. Taller, with her honed athlete’s body, he found himself overcome by her power, her regality, her magnificence. Even as their bodies entwined he could feel the edges of her mind, her memories, from their first meeting to before the Sundering. It was at her urging that they changed places, her falling down beneath him, legs parted for him, gazing into his eyes and deeper, into his mind. She drew her legs around him, pulling him – impossibly – even deeper inside her, surrendering, demanding his surrender.

He couldn’t hold back any longer and came like he hadn’t in years, throwing his head back and releasing forcefully, an inarticulate cry wrenched from his lips.

They had a quiet, tender moment then, curled around each other, enjoying the sweat-damp softness and the agreeable mind fuzz that followed love-making; Lor’themar, deflated, gingerly withdrew from her body but he could feel her soft, inquiring touch continuing to probe in his mind.

“Should I have…” he began, realising as his reason returned that he might have done something ungentlemanlike in releasing inside her rather than withdrawing. He felt a cool chill as the sweat on his skin evaporated; spell-drunk and aroused beyond sensibility, he had taken a risk he hadn’t meant to.

It seemed Thalyssra hadn’t given the matter much thought either. The First Arcanist slid a hand down between her legs, feeling the slippery residue that had begun to seep out from inside her.

“No,” she whispered. “You were in your moment, as I was in mine. Let it be.”

\---

It was high Spring in the Eastern Kingdoms when Arcanist Valtrois came to Silvermoon. Any other visitor might have stopped to admire the magisterial architecture of the Court of the Sun, or the elegant floral arrangements – a collaboration between Lor’themar’s people and the enthusiastic Shal’dorei botanists who were eager to plunge their hands into the soil of another continent. In contrast to the formal planting of Silvermoon’s avenues and markets, simple woodland tulips and anenomes nodded here in the shade of young birches and golden beech, evoking a distant Eversong spring, a happier time.

Valtrois impatiently strode past, her bare feet slapping harshly on the marble. It would have been far more efficient to teleport directly inside, but she had her instructions from Thalyssra, which she would execute to the letter. Such was her imperious gait that the guards actually straightened up before accosting her.

Shortly after, she was granted admittance to a private audience with the Regent Lord. He was in his study, as ever; the paperwork in front of him seemed to be driving a new wrinkle into his forehead.

“Valtrois? What a pleasure.” He took in her appearance; the static charge in her hair and arcane residue clinging to her fingers. She must have teleported in mere minutes ago, by herself – it was acknowledged that, for delicate matters, using the established Horde portal network wasn’t ideal. He felt a tension begin to build in his neck and upper body.

If Valtrois was carrying dire news from Suramar, her body language didn’t betray it. Indeed, the imperious magistrix had visibly relaxed since being admitted to speak with him; her smile was uncharacteristically warm.

“ _Aran-arcana_ , Regent Lord – and congratulations,” she greeted him, reaching into her messenger’s pouch and withdrawing a small disc.

Lor’themar was about to query what possible occasion might warrant such well-wishes, when the arcane projector whirred to life, bringing up a ghostly simulacrum of the First Arcanist.

_Thalyssra._ It had been too long since he had gazed upon his dusk lily; the tension in his body melted away. There had been some changes in the months they had been parted; Thalyssra’s pale hair had grown longer, and unusually for her, she wore loose, voluminous garments rather than her tantalisingly revealing shenti and tabard. Lor’themar knew from her letters there had been numerous challenges in governing Suramar; unpicking ten thousand years of Elisande’s rule was no simple matter, as well as accustoming her inward-looking people to a wider, broader world.

She looked burdened; he wanted to reach through the simulation and rub her shoulders, driving the tension away. In fact, it was past time they had a moment to themselves…

The image remained silent, but in his mind, he heard Thalyssra’s words directly.

“I doubted the signs at first, but I am now certain. I have to tell you that we have conceived a child together. You are to be a father, and I a mother.”

The simulacrum gave a soft smile, acknowledging their shared secret.

In his mind: “ _Help_.”

The image faded. Valtrois flipped the disc back into her pouch, mission completed. “Hence the congratulations,” she explained, taking the opportunity to fill the silence, as Lor’themar had sat down heavily in his chair, taking in the news.

“Of course,” Valtrois continued briskly, “delight and joy aside, there are a few immediate, practical problems posed by the First Arcanist’s condition. So far we have been able to conceal it, but obviously, this will not be possible for much longer. There is the possibility of significant unrest in Suramar when the news becomes widely known. You will understand, under the Grand Magistrix’s regime, child-bearing was strictly regulated, to control the population. You had to apply for permission, and the penalties for transgression were severe. There are those who lost a child to the Legion’s purges, or were declined permission, who will not be as happy as you and I at the news that the First Arcanist is with child. Her political enemies will seize the occasion.” She closed her eyes, reeling off the key facts to the stunned Regent Lord.

“Then, of course, there is the matter of the child’s position. As is traditional for the First Arcanist, Thalyssra gave up her own name and House long ago, but as acting Grand Magistrix, there are constitutional constraints… Regent Lord, are you listening?”

Lor’themar was pulling his boots on.

“I must go to her at once,” he said, distantly. Thalyssra had entrusted Valtrois with the news, even before him – but he was unsure that last, frightened plea had been shared with anyone other than him. This was something new, something the First Arcanist’s long life had not yet given her the tools to weather; without yet knowing if he _could_ help in any way, he knew he should be beside her.

Valtrois twisted her lips. “I suppose I can teleport us both there. We will find a pretext. Remember, the information I have brought you is not common knowledge.”

“Do I need a pretext to visit my Horde ally, my fellow council-member, my honoured, distant kin?” Lor’themar slung a cloak around his shoulders. Inobtrusively, his people had taken their cue and items were being made ready for a journey.

“Perhaps you are not fully appreciative of the political situation in Suramar,” Valtrois remarked.

\---

In the end, it was Rommath and a small honour-guard – after discussion, it was agreed Halduron would remain behind, but assessing the risks with a ranger-general’s shrewdness, he insisted on the escort. If what Valtrois implied about the climate in Suramar was true, it was not worth taking chances, particularly when the occasionally reckless Regent Lord was even more distracted than usual, and had his Grand Magister in his entourage. Valtrois bit her lip at the growing size of the Sin’dorei party, stretched her fingers and drew on her magical might.

Lor’themar had taken the chance to share the news with his closest friends while the guard were being summoned. Rommath and Halduron exchanged glances, then broadly slapped him on the back and gave their congratulations. A feast was floated, once the news became official. “We’ll have it in Orgimmar. It’s political genius, Lor’themar. If there’s anything the Horde needs right now it’s a clear sign of unity between the council. I wonder if any of the others will follow your fine example.”

Rommath agreed, his smile veering sardonic. “People are jaded with war, piled on betrayal, stacked on _more war_ \- but everybody loves babies.”

“We’re getting ahead of ourselves,” Lor’themar cautioned. The only thing keeping the smile from broadening across his face was Thalyssra’s distant, half-imagined plea – _help_. “I must leave for Suramar at once. Try not to die or lose my city.”

Halduron saluted sharply. “If anything comes up-”

“Handle it, put it off or dispose of it,” suggested Rommath.

“Inform me,” was the Regent Lord’s command. “If it is urgent.”

The ranger-general saluted again, as five court guards made their appearance, arrayed in burnished gold and crimson. Halduron cast a quick eye over them and nodded. “ _Shorel-aran_ , Lor’themar. Be careful.”

\---

It was the literal climate in Suramar that first assailed them.

Without the barrier in place, hailstones lashed the Nighthold, and the late spring storm howled around the slender tower. The lightning flash of arcane from the teleportation ricocheted off the white marble architecture, startling the Shal’dorei spellblades who stood guard. Blades flashed into hands, incantations were poised. Lor’themar’s honour guard sprang immediately into a defensive posture around the Regent Lord and Grand Magister.

At this complicated moment, Valtrois stumbled, muttered something, then crumpled to her knees, her silver head sagging forward.

And Thalyssra was there. Perhaps, somehow, she had known they were coming. In a short blink she had stood down her guard and stepped past the Regent Lord, deftly kneeling in front of her collapsed friend. “Valtrois, what is it?”

The response came through ragged, shivering breaths: “Teleporting – eight people – continents – a _bit_ much. Don’t _fuss_.” She could say no more; she was dazed with exhaustion, leaning on Thalyssra to remain even partially upright.

“We must get you inside.” Before anyone could object, Thalyssra whipped the spellbound cloak from her shoulders and draped it carefully around Valtrois, drawing the smaller mage’s arm around her shoulders to support her.

It was only then that she looked to Lor’themar, although he had been fixated on her since she first came into view. Something passed between them without words, but as unscheduled and dramatic as the visit was, they both knew that they would have time to talk – soon – but not yet. For now, they had to behave as the leaders of their respective factions.

“My lady,” he greeted her, offering a courtly bow of respect and his own cloak, a regal swathe of red and gold. “The wind is biting – please.”

Thalyssra hesitated, then shook her head, almost apologetically. The Nightborne guards were impassive. “Thank you, Regent Lord, but it is not far.”

Drawing an arcane shield over them with one hand, and supporting the stumbling Valtrois with the other, she led them inside.

\---

It was fully dark and the winter storm was beginning to ease, although the wind still wailed, tearing around the delicate tracery and crenulations of the Nighthold. Inside, arcwine was poured, and a room prepared for Lor’themar – conspicuously distant from the First Arcanist’s, although the silent servants would not speak of the matter if the two of them remained in Thalyssra’s quarters until morning.

A pretext had been found for the unannounced state visit – a horticultural event of some sort to be held the following day – and Lor’themar’s guards had established themselves unobtrusively about the place, liaising with their Nightborne counterparts. Down the arched hallway in the guest accommodation, Rommath had managed to get into an argument with Valtrois:

“In future, perhaps ask for help if a task exceeds your capabilities. I could have helped you open a portal, or we could have travelled in two groups –”

“The task did not _exceed_ my capabilities! We are here, are we not?”

“Yes, but I would prefer not to see you half-dead from the effort, or worse, our Regent Lord reduced to a fine arcane mist as your spell collapses – ”

“There was _no chance_ of that happening; I made a judgement call, time was of the essence and I know the Nighthold – ”

A third, softer, female voice interjected – “I think that’s enough of your _bickering_. Valtrois, you need to rest. Grand Magister; I can brief you on the situation in the city, as an interested outsider…”

Overhearing the exchange from her own quarters, Thalyssra smiled. “Stellagosa is quite an asset, and not only to our knowledge of ley energies. Valtrois is fond of her, and it’s been useful to have an ally in the Blue Dragonflight.”

“I can certainly imagine,” Lor’themar remarked. They were truly alone now, but it was strange; they both still felt a pressure to play their roles as politicians, leaders, diplomats. He was drinking too much of the wine; Thalyssra had that same tension in her posture as before; from time to time she idly scratched at her neck.

Lor’themar cracked first; he drained his glass and let out a laugh. “What a situation! Forgive me; I should have sent a message, rather than wearing out poor Valtrois like that.”

Thalyssra smiled. “I know what it is to be possessed by the spirit of the moment. No apology is necessary. Perhaps I should apologise for springing the news on you in such a way.”

_The news_. It hung in the air between them, full of possibilities, bright, terrifying.

“No, my l-Thalyssra. I am glad you felt you could call on me.” Lor’themar put his glass aside and folded his hands. “I wish I’d been here sooner.”

“Lor’themar – I thank you. The timing _is_ far from ideal.” Thalyssra rose, moving to the balcony. Arcane wards kept out the worst of the weather, but a whisper of wind slipped through, stirring the translucent drapes. She gazed out over Suramar.

“Grand Magistrix Elisande scryed into all possible futures but missed the one that would ultimately take shape.” Glancing down, she lifted an uncertain hand and touched her belly lightly. “This was not something that I had anticipated, yet it might change everything.”

Perhaps emboldened by the wine, or moved by something in her bright-eyed hope and trepidation, something spurred Lor’themar to act.

“None of us can really know the future – but what is within our power is to face it together.” Collecting his courage – now or never – he dropped to one knee. “Thalyssra, I would be the happiest man in Azeroth if you would stand at my side. You would gain not only a husband, but a protector, an ally, a friend. Our people would be united – a perpetual bond of Shal’dorei and Sin’dorei, born in love, our child’s future secured. You wouldn’t ever have to be afraid or alone, ever again…”

Thalyssra’s face transmuted from thoughtful to startled.

“I – Lor’themar – _no_.”

_No_.

Lor’themar was lost for words for a moment, then he found them.

“I… forgive me. That was rude and presumptuous.” _And political_ , he thought. Had he become so much the Regent Lord that even asking for his lover’s hand in marriage became a matter of strengthening an alliance?

“No, it was not…” she trailed off, searching for words. Her large pearlescent eyes were wide and difficult to read.

“But I have made you uncomfortable, and that cannot be countenanced.” He straightened up, disguising the biting misery of rejection in courtesy. “I have caused quite enough trouble for you tonight, my lady. Perhaps I should return to Silvermoon. Rommath can handle the teleportation-”

_“Lor’themar_. Leave the wounds alone, would you?”

She clasped his hands, running her fingers over the old Farstrider’s callouses, the more literal scars of a warrior and outdoorsman’s long lifetime. The wound of her refusal, and others, ceased to bleed for a moment.

“I don’t want you to go – in fact, I would like nothing better than for you to stay, but what you are… proposing…”

She shook her head, the frown clouding her brow.

“If I give myself to another, I am putting my people’s future in their hands too. Many are still ill-at-ease with my decision to become part of the Horde. My city is filled with eyes and whispers. We may have planted the blossom of freedom, but it has yet to survive its first winter.”

Lor’themar listened, and nodded at this last observation. “It is our lot as leaders. We do not always get to choose what we want the most.”

“There is that. I also need to think about it for myself. There will be a child, that is a certainty, but must I marry my child’s father, or what, lose my ‘honour’?”

It was a word Lor’themar had heard many times in his years as a Horde warleader, but never voiced with such distaste. Thalyssra continued.

“Our traditions are different, and it is not the first time I have been asked, although it is the first time I find myself as I am now. Please do not take this the wrong way; I am sharing my truth with you.” She reached up to caress his cheek. “I didn’t mean ‘ _no’_. That was also rude and presumptuous.”

“It was not.” He closed his eyes as her fingers ran from inert scar tissue below his eye socket to sensitive skin. Thalyssra’ youthful voice and attitude made it easy to forget how long she had lived. “You can refuse me, you are my equal – and here, you have me in your power.”

Thalyssra’s frown softened. “You need not think of yourself as at my mercy. I am no Azshara – I am no Elisande.”

“Of course not. Thalyssra - all I intended was that here, your will is law, and I would be much obliged if you would continue to speak the truth – your truth – to me – especially when I offend. I will stand as loyal ally to the Shal’dorei whether you love me or reject me.” He realised he had downed another glass of wine and pushed the goblet aside. Thalyssra’s closeness was intoxicating enough; he was beginning to feel light-headed.

“I am not rejecting you.” She was still frowning, but her body inclining inward to his touch. “Perhaps I should have used different words.”

“My poetess doubts her command of language.” He reached out for her hand. “In that I can never hope to be your equal, and I am in my cups, so I will say simply; I am here for you and the child. Husband or no. That I will swear, in the light of the sun and on the honour of my people.”

She was very close to him now, her lips by his ear. The heat of her skin seemed to dissolve the remaining tension between them. “Our child, the child we have conceived. How could such a thing be possible for ones such as us?”

“Born of love and poetry. I suppose I can think of worse ways to come into this war-torn world.”

“Tomorrow,” Thalyssra promised, “everything will become clearer. Tonight – Lor’themar – shall we just _be_?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Sin'dorei and Shal'dorei leadership discuss how to break the happy news in Suramar, while events take an alarming turn back in Silvermoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for violence, drug use, excessive food description. 
> 
> Thalyssra’s poetry quote is from ‘Shasta (Carrie’s Song)’ by Vienna Teng, and just to be thorough with referencing, Ly'leth quotes/paraphrases Machiavelli towards the end of this one too. I also fixed some place names. Sunfury Spire, Sunspire, eh. I meant the big one.

It was morning – there were mornings now in Suramar. To Lor’themar Theron’s appreciative eye, the sun was the same as ever, constant, faithful, but here it took on a silvery clarity. Distant places seemed closer. The world was young.

Still a Farstrider at heart, he rose with the sun and did his ranger’s exercises, grateful that there was no trace of a headache. The wine gods, he thought, had been kind to him, or perhaps it was something in the art of the Shal’dorei vintners that left him mercifully clear-headed.

This ritual he had always maintained, in war and peacetime; it helped him clear his mind ahead of the day to come – and today, his intuition told him, was a day he would need every pinch of acuity and diplomacy. Over his long years, he had often found that if you took care of the body, the mind would follow.

Lightly perspiring, he turned, watching the sun’s light creep over the warm winter coverlet, the rumpled bedsheets where they had spent the night in each other’s arms, and finally, over his beloved’s lilac skin, the arcane focal tattoos glistening like water. Thalyssra slept like a child, all odd angles; now she was curled on her side, her long white hair tangled into lugs and knots. 

The night’s lovemaking had been all the more treasured for being unexpected. After their fraught conversation, with her refusal of his proposal and a formal union between their peoples, he had finished his last glass and stood, a little unsteadily, meaning to make his way back down the hall to sleep decently in his own prepared chambers. Thalyssra had caught him by the hands and drawn him back in, meeting him with parted lips, pressing her body against him. In another time he might have teased her for taking advantage of his, frankly, drunken, state, but tonight he had other questions.

“Is it safe?”

“I am assured it is,” she whispered, sliding her leg between his as her fingers went to his belt-buckles. Despite the dulling effect of the wine, he was stirred and half-stiff; the rest came from seeing all of her when she wriggled out of her filmy gown. Every part of her was perfect; the scent of her skin, the taste of her lips, the soft hitch in her breath as he placed his warm hands on her, cupping her breast, her buttocks, the pronounced curve of her belly.

“How have you kept _this_ secret? Illusions?” he wondered.

“Tailoring, for the most part. Illusions are fine, but half my Duskwatch can see through – ” she broke off, distracted. His warm hand was between her legs, his stiffened cock resting against the place where her thighs met, cautious, hesitant – but her breathy assent against his ear encouraged him. She was dewy-slick and ready, and he found himself to be eager, drunk on the wine and the scent of her, the new fullness of her breasts and belly.

The moment that had captured him, and would remain a memory for many nights afterwards, was the enquiring brush of her mind against his even as his tip slid against her opening, and their gentle, perfect union.

He was broken off from his recollections by the arrival of Valtrois, who seemed entirely unsurprised by his presence in Thalyssra’s chamber. Lor’themar counted his fortunes that he had one of those faces that naturally betrayed little; a leader often has cause to be lost in thought, but the nature of his reverie remained private.

“Ah, good morning. Are you well?” he checked, remembering Valtrois’s collapse the previous evening.

She made a contemptuous noise and waved her hand. “I am, as you can see, perfectly fine. We will breakfast together and go over the matters at hand.” She sniffed, her finely-tuned nose catching the sweat on his back, and the sheets that held the scent of both of them. “I hope you managed _some_ sleep. We have a busy day ahead of us.”

Lor’themar grimaced. “I expect we do, but the First Arcanist is not up yet, and I find myself unwilling to disturb her.”

“I am awake,” said Thalyssra, from behind closed eyelids. She uncoiled her body slightly, drawing a hand across her face as if to shield herself from the morning sun. To Lor’themar, she sounded reluctant, but Valtrois didn’t seem to read that in her longtime friend. She sprang over to the bed and began to brief Thalyssra.

There did indeed sound to be a lot to attend to, and the fast Shalassian was difficult to follow, even though his own tongue was its near cousin. Lor’themar took the cue to attend to his ablutions and make ready for the day. Sweet recollections and private moments would have to wait.

\---

The Shal’dorei servants brought breakfast in their customary silence, every motion trained to be unobtrusive and almost invisible to the guests. Lor’themar looked on the food with approval; he had not eaten since they left Silvermoon and he had expected dainty, mana-flecked delicacies, but this was hearty, simple fare, and plenty of it. They laid out baked eggs and wide, flat beans in earthenware bowls, rounds of fired flatbread, a herby salad, oils in artisanal phials. There was honey, heavy strained yoghurt, and an abundance of fresh fruit – apricots, grapes, pomegranate. A strong, fragrant tea was abrew and heavy-bottomed glasses were set out for it.

Lor’themar resisted the urge to load up his plate, and took in the company. Rommath was in conversation with a pristinely-attired Shal’dorei noblewoman that Lor’themar thought he recognised. There was Valtrois – her friend the blue dragon absent, this being a private meeting of the Shal’dorei and Sin’dorei high command. Oculeth arrived in his habitual manner, via portal, followed by Victoire, the new First Blade of Suramar and head of the Duskwatch. The old veteran in Lor’themar recognised the dedication and precision in her stance, the parade-ground gleam of her armour, and instantly took a liking to her; he was glad that she was part of Thalyssra’s inner circle.

“Shall we?” said Oculeth. Bread was torn into generous strips and passed around; Valtrois produced an agenda which hovered in the air, freeing her hands and enabling her to shovel an impressive quantity of the dressed flat beans onto her plate. It seemed many of the Nightborne had an appreciative appetite for real food, now the nourishing energies of the Nightwell were gone. Thalyssra dipped bread in oil and ate sparingly; there was a wan look to her, but she squeezed Lor’themar’s hand under the table when he asked. “Mornings are difficult, but I am well.”

“Item 1: portal link direct from the Nighthold to Sunfury Spire.” Oculeth divided an apricot into precise quarters with his pocket-knife. “Our telemancers are calling out for it, as are the botanists.”

“It would make trade and cultural exchange between our peoples easier,” Thalyssra put in, “as well as reducing the burden on our mages.”

Valtrois, in bad humour, skewered a fruit with her knife.

“I have no objection,” said Lor’themar, looking to his Grand Magister. “Rommath, what do you think?”

“Straightforward enough. We could repurpose the Orb of Translocation in the Inner Sanctum. Not many people have business portalling to the Undercity any more. We could have it done this morning, if you like.”

“Let’s, then. Oculeth, Rommath – I will leave that one with you,” Lor’themar confirmed, getting a nod of assent from Thalyssra. He folded a strip of bread around some of the herbs and took a bite, savouring the freshness and simplicity of the meal.

“Item 2. Today’s agenda – the High Botanist wants us to look at some flowers.” Valtrois curled her lip. “It was the best we could come up with at short notice. Then lunch – and haiku readings – at the Sanctum of Verse, Thalyssra will meet the vintners’ delegation and citizen petitioners, Lady Astravar’s springtime ball at the Court of Stars, then twilight gondola cruise with the Astromancers. Apparently there’s some meteor shower to watch.”

“Bring a warm cloak, they will go on,” put in the noblewoman, who Lor’themar now recognised as Ly’leth Lunastre, Thalyssra’s agent within Elisande’s court during the rebellion. Her manners were impeccable; watching her delicately spoon from the salver of strained yoghurt and top it with a drizzle of honey was almost art in itself.

“Let’s move on. Item 3.” Valtrois looked pointedly at Lor’themar and Thalyssra. Reflexively, the First Arcanist’s hand went to her belly.

“It does not sit well with me,” said Thalyssra, “to keep a secret from my people, and I’m aware time will soon force my hand – but I still do not feel the moment is right to make this announcement.”

“I will be guided by the wishes of the First Arcanist.” Under the table, Lor’themar gave her fingers a quick squeeze again.

“May I speak frankly?” said Valtrois.

“I hope you always do,” Thalyssra responded with a half-smile.

“What are you waiting for? When _will_ be the right time?”

Thalyssra’s brow furrowed. “You know how things are in the city. Half my nobles are outraged about how I dealt with House Narassin, the other half are outraged that I didn’t redistribute the titles and properties to them. Then there’s the fact that we still restrict family size in Suramar.” Thalyssra gestured the breakfast spread before them.

“The reason we eat well today is that we have prepared to do so, by not having more children than we can support. Since the loss of the Nightwell’s nourishment we have to be even more careful than before; this is why I have not rescinded Elisande’s edict. They would call me a hypocrite – and they would be right.” She paused. “There’s also the question of the Arcan’dor. Our children are born addicted; they wither without its energies. It cannot nourish a spiralling population.”

“Yes,” said Valtrois, “but will any of that have changed in three months? Four? Are people to find out when the child makes their own introduction – perhaps in the middle of a dance at the Court of Stars?” The conjured quill made an irritated swipe across the floating agenda.

Thalyssra would not move. “I have my reasons,” she said. “This is a personal matter concerning my body and my family, as well. The timing is not right.”

Ly’leth reached out a placating hand. “Thalyssra, my dear. We know how you must feel. I have an idea. Why don’t we announce your happy news _alongside_ a lessening of the restrictions? I believe it can be made to work. With our newly-established portal to Silvermoon, we can bring in what we can’t grow, so perhaps you can share your happiness with the citizenry – we’ll all eat well, and your child might have a generation of brothers and sisters?” She raised an arched eyebrow at the Sin’dorei delegation.

Lor’themar looked to Rommath, who nodded. He cleared his throat. “Certainly, Thalyssra. What you need and we can supply, you will have.”

“We can help you re-cultivate the land around the city,” Rommath suggested. “Your botanists have made very clever inroads into arcano-agriculture, but now you can work in the light of the sun, there’s much more you can do. The Arcan’dor question, we can work on.” Lor’themar nodded in return. He was glad he had his Grand Magister at his side.

Thalyssra glanced from advisor to advisor. Oculeth was staring studiously at his tea, not willing to get involved in the charged topic, but Valtrois, Ly’leth, Rommath and Lor’themar were all looking at her, willing her to agree. She let out a deep breath.

“Very well. If this is what everyone feels is best, there is no reason to delay any longer. We will break the news today.” She turned to her captain. “Victoire, please ask Lady Astravar if she would be amenable to having an important matter read out at her ball. I doubt she will say no. Have the Duskwatch reinforce House Astravar’s security arrangements. I want you, personally, to assume command.”

Victoire, silent and attentive until now, gave a neat salute. “As you wish, First Arcanist.”

Valtrois let out a sigh, then reached for a second helping of the bean dish. “It’s the right decision, Thalyssra,” she counselled her friend, who had something of a lost look about her.

“And we will stand by you, whatever happens.” Lor’themar took her hand between his, trying to reassure her. “I think your people will be delighted – and if they dare be anything less, you can show them the consequences of disrespect.”

“Quite!” Ly’leth dabbed at her perfectly-drawn lips with a silk handkerchief. “Sometimes, one must be firm with people. You will often have to tell unwelcome truths, but this one, I think we can parcel as an unmitigated joy, one that you are sharing with your people out of love for them. Do not, for a moment, let them think this was anything but your intention. I read once that a ruler might be loved, or feared, but they must never be hated. That is where Elisande failed, but who could hate a lady with a baby?”

“I think we have covered the, ah, key agenda points?” Clearly uncomfortable with politics, and with an empty platter, Oculeth was fidgeting, wishing to leave but bound by custom.

“Thank you, dear friends.” Thalyssra rose, and the others followed suit. Elven manners are hard-wired. Lor’themar moved to take her arm; she hesitated, but accepted. It was their first overt show of their love affair in the presence of their friends and allies. To Lor’themar, it felt good.

“We will meet again at the Court of Stars. _An’ratha adore_.”

\---

Still evening had come to Silvermoon, and Halduron Brightwing had not seen a sliver of daylight all day. He closed the heavy chamber doors with a grunt, then in four strides was at the balcony, to catch the last of the evening sun.

When Lor’themar returned, he decided, he was going to buy the poor man a drink.

His day had been taken up with a bewildering array of urgent business, all equally important, or so its originators would have him believe. He decided to prioritise what he could understand, see the most immediately distressed petitioners, and deal with the only item that came directly from Lor’themar – an order for the portal mages to repurpose the Inner Sanctum to give them a direct link to Suramar. Throughout the day, a stream of interested Nightborne tourists had emerged, blinking in the light, asking questions of everyone. They hadn’t caused _much_ trouble, but while he was dealing with that, a stack of paperwork of distressing height had appeared on his desk, all demanding the prompt and urgent attention of the Regent Lord.

Someone had called him ‘Regent Regent Lord’ at one point, he was sure.

Halduron took a deep, deep lungful of the fragrant Eversong air, his fingers going to his belt pouch. The slim pipe, glossy with use and care, was engraved with his initial, and the rule that had kept him on an even keel on all these years – _in moderation all things_.

Well, after the day he had had, a _touch_ of immoderation wouldn’t hurt.

The scent rose up to greet him as he opened the plain casket and began to fill the pipe with practised fingers, packing the leaves down well. This bloodthistle came from the best in the business, and the most discreet. It was a habit from his soldiering days that fused pleasant memories and soothed the ragged edges of a ranger-general’s soul. A spark from his arcane firelighter and –

_Ahh. That, that was it._ He smoked contemplatively, and then, with relish. Back in the day, the men used to call her the Lady in Red, the enchantress, the seductress, who would take away your weariness, pain, longing – but would bite you as she left, make you miss her, but you weren’t to indulge too often as nobody wanted a thistlehead in the unit. He had no intention of becoming one of those.

He had until the morning. Gazing out over his land, his mind drifted back to some night by a campfire in the woods, trolls skulking in the shadows and the best men and women in Quel’thalas beside him. He remembered the laughter, the songs, the victories, the losses. He remembered who they were before they had had to stand forward to lead, before it changed them. He blew a contemplative smoke ring and let the present drift away, as the sun began to sink over Sunstrider Isle and, beyond, the Great Sea.

The blade took him square in the back.

Bloodthistle dulled the senses; the immediate white flash of pain was delayed, but Halduron’s ranger’s instinct was never truly sleeping. Rather than staggering forward and remaining at his attacker’s mercy, he pivoted on his heel, letting out a shout that became a gasp; the assassin had struck deep, but his grip was not strong, and he seemed to have been expecting his victim to drop immediately. He grunted as the dagger carved a half-moon into his side as he spun around – but it worked; the assassin’s wrist was bent back so that he released his grip on his weapon.

The blade clattered to the floor, its enchantments dissipating in a bloom of unwholesome-looking smoke, as Halduron lunged forward, taking advantage of his long archer’s reach to grasp his assailant by the forearm. The man was slightly built, like a dancer, and Halduron caught a flash of white, pearlescent eyes behind his mask as he fought, kicking out viciously.

“The First Arcanist sends her regards,” he spat, eager to get the rehearsed words out quickly, but he couldn’t shake off the tenacious ranger-general’s grip. “ _Damn_ you, lowborn dog,” he hissed, and twisted, trying to use Halduron’s momentum against him.

Halduron let out a laugh between gritted teeth. “ _That’s_ what you came here to say to me?” he managed, fighting to keep hold of the now-disarmed assailant. With a grunt of effort he threw an arm around his midsection, grunting as the torn muscle in his back went into spasm, but he at least had a better grip on him.

Struggling violently now, the intruder reached for a bottle at his belt and slammed it into the floor, releasing thick, obscuring smoke intended to cover his escape. Someone was coming now; either murderous reinforcements or the guards, drawn by the sound of the struggle.

Somewhere, he found his strength, and for just a moment, had the assassin in the right place for a good old troll-boxing punch in the back of the head. That did the trick; the fight went out of the elf and his limbs went slack, head lolling forward, and Halduron, locked in mid-struggle, slid on the blood-slick floor and went down after him.

The two of them lay in an ungainly heap, Halduron breathing hard, the assassin limp and unconscious, his loosened crop of white hair spilling loose over his masked face.

Halduron’s thoughts were slowed, either by the pipe, blood loss or some yet-unknown blade venom - and while it registered that the man was a Nightborne elf and had just tried to kill him in First Arcanist Thalyssra’s name, he didn’t process the information, it just _was._ In the distance, someone finally broke the latch on the heavy doors and burst into the room. He heard his name called out, but it didn’t seem to be more of them, come to finish the job.

_Well, that’s something_ , he thought, as the ceiling swirled agreeably above him through the smoke. _I think we’re about even, Lor’themar. In fact, perhaps **you** owe **me** a drink. What a day. What a … _

\---

Night came to Suramar up out of the sea, the gathering clouds parting at just the right time. Snuggled together in the back of a regal barge, the Regent Lord and the First Arcanist had the view of the night sky that the astromancers had so anxiously promised them.

“I am awake,” Thalyssra murmured, but her eyes were closed, her body nestled against Lor’themar’s side. A heavy cloak covered the two of them to keep the chill out. He pressed a kiss to the top of her silvery-white head.

“No-one will mind if you are not,” he whispered back. At the head of the barge, the enthusiastic astromancer was talking, but his words fell agreeably into the lapping of the water against the boat, the cool night breeze, and Thalyssra’s closeness. Lor’themar’s face was fixed in an attitude of interested attention, but in truth, the Nightborne scholar could have been saying anything.

Contrary to all expectations, the day had gone well. The mages reported success in establishing the portal link to Silvermoon, so that was one less thing to worry about. The horticultural display that was the pretext for the visit actually turned out to be quite enjoyable – mostly for the way it made Thalyssra’s face light up.

In her letters, she’d expressed sorrow that her beloved Dusk Lily flower shrivelled and withered in the full light of the sun; they thrived in the artificial gloom that had reigned under the shade of the barrier but failed and died in the light. Some court satirists had drawn snide parallels between the fate of the emblematic flower and Thalyssra’s government, although there were few bold enough to say so to her face.

By the skill of the palace grove-tenders, the chamber that held the husk of the dead Nightwell had been transformed; the residual arcane pulse as well as the perpetual twilight stirring the dormant pods to life. Dark leaves now coiled down the walls and buds swelled out of the stonework. Thalyssra had had the honour of plucking the first bloom, and she still wore it in her hair now, releasing its heady scent even as she nodded, losing the battle with tiredness. It had been a long day for her, but perhaps, now, her schedule could be more forgiving, as her secret was a secret no longer.

Lor’themar had been dreading that announcement most, but it went best of all. Ly’leth had drafted the speech and Thalyssra delivered it to the hushed aristocrats. Her voice did not tremble, her smile was wide and confident, and the room erupted in elated applause when she told them.

It would be naïve to think that the nobles at Lady Astravar’s party reflected the full spectrum of Suramar opinion, but among these glittering, cultured individuals, the news was received exactly as Ly’leth had calculated. Happiest of all, perhaps, was Lady Astravar – her little ball for friends had become the event of the season, a historic day to be remembered for centuries. The night had been congratulation after flowery congratulation; poems had been spontaneously composed on the spot for the auspicious occasion. Valtrois captured the attention of the revellers by arriving – and leaving, early – on the back of a blue dragon, and – gently nudged on by Ly’leth, Lor’themar and Thalyssra had shared a stately dance, fortunately one with footwork that was difficult to get too far wrong.

“How do you think that went?” he had asked, as the music drew them close together.

“Better than I thought,” Thalyssra admitted, stepping past Lor’themar in a graceful motion, before returning to link arms with him. “For now. I wonder, though… _they take you in their arms, then they take out their knives_. It’s from a poem,” she added quickly, as Lor’themar’s eyes had darted to the assembled partygoers, half-expecting actual knives.

“Sounds a threatening sort of poem. I preferred the one about the spirit of the moment,” he’d responded, pausing to concentrate on the steps of the dance. The Shal’dorei onlookers seemed in a forgiving mood in the light of the announcement, willing to tolerate a certain lack of grace in the outlander elf their leader had taken as her lover.

Thalyssra’s smile still had an uncertain edge, but by the end of the dance, she seemed reconciled to all being, for now, well. The presence of Victoire and her Duskwatch, inobtrusive but visible, helped.

“My lord Theron, did you see that! Splendid, a closer pass than I’ve seen in a long time!”

Lor’themar turned his attention back to the present, up to where the astromancer was pointing. In the inky dark, a shower of stars seemed to streak across the sky, impossibly distant, but some were closer, brighter. One in particular seemed to have excited the man, a star that was not cold silver but golden, its long tail unfurling behind it as it sailed by.

“In the ancient past, such a sight was considered a good omen. We are, of course, men of science, and look to the stars for understanding, not folklore – but what a beauty she is!”

“Remarkable,” he responded, shifting his weight slightly, ensuring Thalyssra was comfortable and covered by the blanket. There was a discordant sound somewhere nearby, a splashing in the water, as if someone was paddling urgently. The gondolier had noticed it first. He snapped an irritated hand gesture, then shouted in fast Shalassian – “Imbecile, the waterways are closed – oh.”

For the boat rapidly closing on them was manned by a Sin’dorei messenger, waving down the Regent Lord’s barge; the Nightborne oarsman rowing hard for speed.

Lor’themar assumed the expression, pushing down his irritation that this would be, no doubt, essential business that could have been left until the morning, or gone through Halduron. He gently disengaged his arms from Thalyssra, propping up the dozing First Arcanist with the velvet pillows in their seating nook, and then stood up to attend to the matter. Years a politician, and even so, he could not keep the trace of exasperation from his voice.

“I suppose this cannot wait?”

Lor’themar suddenly recognised the envoy; he was a Farstrider, one of Halduron’s men. The smear of blood on his cheek was fresh.

“Forgive me, Regent Lord. It cannot.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the face of an unveiled conspiracy against both their regimes, Thalyssra - and Lor'themar - contemplate the masks they must wear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for canon character death, although it isn't who you think.

Lady Ly’leth Lunastre’s face was so pale her painted lips stood out vividly, as if bloodied. Her hands were shaking. “No – it isn’t. Please, check again. Check for illusions. The Outlander! We used his face before… check his quarters. It cannot – it must not be – ”

Thalyssra was gravely quiet and composed. She wore her hood and cloak today; the cowl fell low over her brow, like a mourner’s wrap or executioner’s hood.

“Ly’leth,” she said, “the Sin’dorei captured him alive. It is Anarys.”

Lady Lunastre flinched as if physically struck.

“I cannot believe it,” she said, her voice small, no longer commanding.

Thalyssra tilted her head to the left; it was a signal for her captain to approach. Victoire was just as impassive as her sovereign, her face obscured by a burnished silver helm.

“I believe you had nothing to do with this, Ly’leth.” The noblewoman bowed her head as Thalyssra spoke. “That doesn’t change the position I find myself in. A member of your household has tried to assassinate a senior commander of the Horde.” She softened her tone. “You told me that your brother had seen the error of his ways, and you would vouch for him. What happened, Ly’leth?”

“Please have mercy, Thalyssra.” Ly’leth’s clipped articulation trembled dangerously, and a single tear spilled down her cheek, taking a trail of black kohl with it. She swiped it away with a trembling hand. “He is all that’s left of my family, my father. This is not _him_. I mean, someone has influenced him. This isn’t who he is. Please, let me speak with him.”

“Your request is denied.” Thalyssra exhaled. Watching the self-possessed diplomat and socialite come apart like this did not make the task any easier. “Ly’leth, you know well what I have to do. Even if that were within my power, this is a matter for the Blood Elves and the Horde. They will administer whatever justice they deem fit. I cannot be seen to be shielding my nobles from the consequences of their actions.” She shook her head. What she had to do next was harder than consigning Anarys to the justice of the Horde.

“You will be kept under house arrest until I advise otherwise. If it later comes out that you had any knowledge of Anarys’s plan, I will hand you over to the Sin’dorei too.” Sentence pronounced, she tilted her head to the side. “Victoire, see that Lady Lunastre is returned to her estate.”

Wordlessly, Victoire signalled two of the Duskwatch spellblades. For a moment, it seemed Ly’leth was going to scream, fall to her knees and beg, or even resist and force them to drag her, but she drew her dignity together, standing tall, and even dropped a curtsey to Thalyssra before retreating with her armed escort, neither of them needing to lay a hand on her. It was clear Ly’leth would rather die where she stood than be hauled in bonds through the streets of Suramar.

Thalyssra watched them leave. Her posture slackened and she suddenly hunched forward, face tight with pain.

“First Arcanist?” Victoire had set her polearm down and moved quickly to her sovereign’s side.

“…nothing.” Thalyssra’s breath caught, but soon whatever came over her passed, and she straightened up. “It is nothing. You are dismissed, for now… we will speak later.”

Victoire snapped off a perfect salute and retrieved her weapon. Her retreating footsteps echoed down the corridor. Thalyssra detected an uncharacteristic slowness, a reluctance, but she had other matters to concern herself with, now. The new Orb of Translocation hummed softly behind her; beyond it, Silvermoon, an intrigue that threatened to rip the Horde apart –

\- Lor’themar.

The tiny hourglass flickered with its own arcane potency; the sand within did not fall, but swirled, spiralling patterns forming and dissipating. It was always slightly warm to the touch, as if it felt the hands of its previous owners – wielders – dancing across its surface.

Wordlessly, she slid into a seat, feeling the last twinging ache recede. She must wait for the Sin’dorei to complete their interrogations and make their demands. She had no power over how long that would take, but this work, this task, now held more value than ever.

Thalyssra retrieved her place in the heavy tome that floated on an arcane bookrest in front of her, ran her finger down the aeons-ancient script, and raised her hand. Perhaps, today, greater understanding would come. Perhaps it would grant certainty which would ease the pain of what she had already done, and what she might yet have to do.

\---

“I did _tell_ you not to die or lose my city.”

Worry for his friend had over-ridden the exasperation in his voice; Lor’themar crossed the room quickly and perched at the ranger-general’s side, checking him for obvious damage.

“Regent Lord, I can report a total success on both fronts, just about.” Halduron Brightwing winced, shifting his weight to lessen pressure on the wound. “I’m kicking myself to have been taken at unawares like that. My instincts were never so dull. It’s all this paperwork, I’m certain. It rots the brain.”

Lor’themar smiled despite the severity of the situation. He was reassured to find Halduron very much himself. “I think a lot more has just been generated. Tell me what happened?”

He listened as Halduron related the tale of his encounter with the Shal’dorei assassin. The ranger-general was used to giving a report that left nothing out. It was towards the end that Lor’themar stopped him.

“He said he was acting on behalf of the First Arcanist? Thalyssra?”

“Yes – he used her title, not her name, but that’s the impression I had. I mean, I know pregnant women can sometimes do irrational things, but sending assassins after your allied nation’s captains is… well, a bit much. I assumed some feud, some dissenter, maybe, trying to stir up trouble for her. Had it been Thalyssra herself behind this – well, I suspect that if she wanted me dead, I’d be dead.”

“I’m almost certain Thalyssra had nothing to do with this.” Lor’themar frowned. “We do need to get to the bottom of it, though. I can’t have my ranger-general getting stabbed in the back every time I have to leave Silvermoon.”

“I could stand for less of that sort of thing too,” Halduron put in. “It’s possible you were the intended target, but he struck whoever was available, taking advantage of the new Orb of Translocation from Suramar City.”

Lor’themar rubbed his forehead. “That’s not got off to a good start, has it. I will speak to the magisters, although Rommath and Valtrois –”

“- are fratching like cats,” Halduron finished his friend's sentence for him, to the Regent Lord's nod.

“Indeed. How soon do you expect to be back on your feet?”

Halduron grimaced. “I’d already be, but the healers want to keep me under observation, just in case of any Shal’dorei tricks. Couple of days. Are you going back to Suramar?”

“Not until I have a better understanding what’s going on.” Lor’themar rose to his feet. “I won’t be informing the Horde Council of this, at least for now.”

“It’s a risk. If we don’t bring it to the Council, then someone else turns with a Nightborne blade in the back…”

“Noted. I have eyes on the situation… I think ‘relations’ between Silvermoon and Suramar have given them enough to talk about, at least for this week. We’ll keep it an internal matter. Rest and heal, my friend.”

Halduron gave a ranger’s salute, wincing.

“One more thing.” Lor’themar assumed his Regent Lord’s face for a moment. “I don’t leave thistleheads in charge of my city. I don’t want to hear even a whisper of a rumour of anything like that, ever again. Am I understood?”

Halduron blinked, but retained composure, repeating his salute of respect and deference. Lor’themar really did have eyes on matters.

“Perfectly understood, Regent Lord.”

\---

He couldn’t shake the feeling that Thalyssra was calling him; her soft voice with its arcane distortion was there in the back of his mind. He pushed it down; probably he was just thinking of her, and the echo of pain that caused him was brought about entirely by the present situation.

Anarys Lunastre was being held at Farstriders’ Square, so the walk gave Lor’themar some time to get his thoughts in order. He almost didn’t notice his bodyguard falling into step behind him; they were used to the Regent Lord’s lack of regard for his personal safety, and had learned to be always ready, rather than coming when called.

_Could_ Thalyssra be responsible? His instincts conjured his lover’s face and told him not to be ridiculous, but over time he had learned to give instinct a seat at the table alongside reason and evidence. What would she gain by weakening the Sin’dorei leadership, and in such an obvious way, claiming the crime as her own?

His thoughts turned to other possibilities. Suramar was complex; the Shal’dorei had had ten millennia to devise something to do under their shield, and for reasons best known to them they’d decided to engage in noble power politics, factionalism and vying for favour. He didn’t wish to have to unpick whatever obscure motivations might be lurking in the dark heart of Thalyssra’s ancient city. Lor’themar hoped the captured assassin was in a talkative sort of mood. Briefly, he fantasised about picking up Halduron’s attacker and slapping him around, perhaps drop-kicking him around the square for a bit. He was Regent Lord; no-one would stop him – Halduron might, had he been here – but in the end he shoved the thoughts down as unbecoming and unacceptable. The Horde, now more than ever, had need of its honour, its _standards._

The slight Nightborne was hunched in a corner of the cell, his face tilted away from the light. Lor’themar wasn’t sure if the man was asleep or ignoring him, but when one of his guards grabbed a handful of Anarys’s mop of white hair, he opened his eyes and gave him a poisonous look, then wincing in pain as they jostled him. Lor’themar allowed himself to take a small amount of pleasure in that, at least; Halduron had dealt him a solid blow.

“I will not speak with the likes of you,” Anarys hissed. “Take me to the First Arcanist.”

Lor’themar gestured the guard to let him go. He interlaced his fingers and stretched, surveying Halduron’s would-be killer with distaste. “Consider your situation. You’re hardly in a position to make demands, Anarys.”

There was a flash of rage in the Nightborne’s eyes: “You will address me by my title, filth. I am a scion of House Lunastre, eminent among the Highborne since we first gazed upon the Well of Eternity. Who’s ever heard of House _Theron_?”

Lor’themar laughed out loud. One thing he loved about the Shal’dorei was their at times almost delusional audacity and self-importance. Thalyssra was a refreshing counter-example.

“Well, at this point, many more people than I’d like. Why should I turn you over to Suramar? Your crime was against both the Horde and Silvermoon. I’d be perfectly within my rights to see you hang like a common criminal, perhaps before the day is out.”

“You can administer the barbarous ‘justice’ of outlanders, but you’ll never know why I acted as I did, and when the next strike comes, you’ll be none the wiser.” Anarys’s pale eyes were a little unfocused with his head injury, but fixed on Lor’themar; he seemed to radiate an aura of hatred. “Killing me would upset my dear sister dreadfully, but it would merely take the head from the hydra. I am a harbinger of what is to come. How is your friend? A little unsteady on his feet? Seeing things that aren’t there, perhaps?”

Before he really realised what he was doing, Lor’themar had the elf by the collar, lifting him bodily and slamming him into the cell wall.

“ _What did you do to Halduron?_ ”

Anarys’s head sagged, but a smile played across his lips.

“Take me to Thalyssra, and I will tell you everything.”

\---

“Thank you for bringing him to me,” she said.

  
They were speaking as they walked. Lor’themar glanced down, at the swirling, black sea below the Nightspire. It matched his mood.

“He will only speak if he gets to speak to you, and _he needs to speak quickly_.” Lor’themar’s hands clenched in his golden-mailed gloves. “If my ranger-general dies, this becomes a Horde matter. You have not been open with me, and now my people have paid the price.”

Thalyssra reached for his hand. Her lips didn’t move. _Lor’themar, I have never lied to you._

“Get out of my head!” he barked, in his battlefield voice. There was a time for lovers’ intimacy; this was not it. Thalyssra’s mouth opened; her ears dropped. She protectively moved a hand to her belly. Lor’themar immediately regretted his tone, but that didn’t stop the urgency of what he needed. His oldest friend’s life hung in the balance.

“I will speak to him,” she said, out loud this time. “I will make this right – but do not say that I haven’t been open with you.” Her voice swelled with feeling, loud enough for the accompanying escort to hear. “I have taken you into my counsels, my city, my _body_. I have been more open with you than anyone on Azeroth. Think about who you are speaking to.”

Some of their entourage had the manners to look away, but Lor’themar did not. He lowered his voice, but it wasn’t a soft, lover’s whisper.

“Do _not_ make this about us. I have to act as Regent Lord of the Blood Elves today. You need to answer for the actions of your people.”

\---

The hood was pulled back from Anarys’s face. He winced, having been transported blind and bound, then focused on his interrogators – or interrogator. He found himself alone with Thalyssra. It was a little-used part of the palace, the deepest chambers beneath the Nighthold. Crystallised scorpion carapaces lay about the place, the only light coming from their residual energy, and Thalyssra’s lantern.

“Brave,” he sniffed. “I thought you’d have your Sin’dorei dog dispatch me. It seems you are truly desperate.”

“You wanted to capture my attention, to make me listen to you; I am here, I am listening. Say your piece,” she said, not raising her voice, following every movement carefully.

Anarys shook his head. “It will make no difference. You did most of my work for me last night, actually. Incapacitate a Sin’dorei notable, destabilise their regime… you did all of that, and more, with your happy news. Perhaps I really do tire of life.”

“Why?” Thalyssra leaned in close to Anarys, trying to read the noble elf’s face. “I pardoned you, I gave you freedom of the city, your wealth, your titles. I granted you clemency when you begged for it, even though you professed loyalty to Elisande until the very end. Has it been so hard to bear?”

Anarys rolled his eyes in an exaggerated motion, which clearly pained him. “Such _beneficence._ Did you forget how you _stole my face_? Half the city still recoil from me in terror. My friends have politely disowned me. The doors of power and influence – even pleasure – are closed to me. My freedom, in effect, extends to the walls of my sister’s estate. What kind of life do you think I have now?”

Thalyssra remained impassive. “You resent Ly’leth’s status?”

He made an irritated noise. “I don’t care a fig for my sister; she is brainwashed like the rest of them. I act out of love of my people, to preserve them from those who would debase our noble heritage. Look what your ‘rebellion’ has cost us.” He sneered. “Our traditions, our identity. Our beloved Nightwell, turned into a glorified _greenhouse_.”

He gestured angrily, yanking at the arcane bonds that restrained his wrists. “That power was our birthright; you had _no right_ to let it die. Did you think that, that desecration, would pass without comment?”

Thalyssra listened, allowing Anarys to work himself up into a temper.

“And _you_! When you’d finished murdering your predecessors with your army of fel-dipped corpses, who was truly ‘liberated’? Did we regain our lands, our place in the world? No – you decided allying with a band of wild _beasts_ and filthy _barbarians_ was in our interest, you fight their idiotic land wars, and you yourself – you sport and rut with outsiders, you pollute our ancient bloodlines. We have replaced one tyrant with another; worse, one who has defiled and debased herself – and our entire nation.” He laughed without humour. “However adeptly he fucked you, I can tell you, it was nothing compared to how you –”

Thalyssra took a step forward. Her eyes darkened; Anarys’s hands went rigid, his face taut. It was as if he was paralysed in place while she spoke directly into his mind. The shadows in the room flickered and lengthened; the scorpid carapaces glowed with an eerie bluish-purple light.

She broke eye-contact; Anarys sagged, then drew his knees to his chest, breathing hard. Thalyssra’s eyes weren’t on him any more, though; she was casting. The cool violet of arcane shot down her arms and formed precise rings, and then, she was not alone with the prisoner any more.

The Withered were heard before they were seen; the scrape of their overgrown toenails, the soft burr of their breathing, the _sniffing._ Four pairs of pale eyes flickered open in the gloom, and focused on the prisoner. Thalyssra and her lantern were gone. It was very dark.

Anarys, perhaps less tired of life than he previously thought, let out a stifled, terrified whimper.

The pain was worse this time; it doubled her over, forcing her to bite down on her lip not to cry out. Mercifully, she was alone. The echo of Anarys’s screams was distant, in the lower chambers; these corridors rarely patrolled.

It passed; a moment, and it was gone. It was quiet, now, and in her mind, secure, the information Lor’themar needed. She straightened up, called upon her power and teleported back to the Nightspire.

\---

“If I never have to deal with warlocks again, it’ll be too soon,” was Liadrin’s response, yanking her leather glove back on and reaching for her bracer. “It’s not even the fel. We’ve all been _drenched_ in that over the years… it’s everything about them. The way they move, how they talk. You know what – I’m going to bathe. I suspect he will want to too, when he wakes up.”

It was Sunfury Spire, later that day. Halduron lay insensate on the bed behind them, his bare chest freshly bandaged, eyes closed but breathing more easily than before.

It had almost gone very badly. Word from Suramar – the successful interrogation of the assassin and information on what had been done to Halduron – arrived in the nick of time. Then it had been a case of tracking down the appropriate power to undo it – more difficult than might be expected, given its nature – doing the work, and then Liadrin had arrived, breathless and infuriated at the news. Once Alamma the ‘freelance magister’ had unwoven the fel curse draining the life out of the ranger-general, the last infusion of Light had been hers.

“It was clever,” the warlock had remarked, pursing his thin lips. “Very clever. It would have looked arcane, but no mage could have budged that; the core of it’s pure fel, and Light would’ve made it worse, locking the poison in. The Nightborne are artists, really. Their Nightwell gave them quite an unusual perspective on the nature of magic; I would have never considered approaching that...”

“Do your work and begone,” Liadrin had snapped. Seeing Halduron in this state had frayed her nerves to the limit. She had no patience to hear the assassin’s work praised by someone who had no business showing his face outside Murder Row, but had at least had the good sense to answer a summons.

“I’m disappointed, but unsurprised,” Rommath remarked. “Even with the Legion’s atrocities in the region, the Nightborne are magically attuned, perhaps even more so than we are. They are curious and power-hungry. Without the Nightwell to draw on, some will have turned to darker energies. Most of the Felborne were too far gone to save, but it’s out there; someone’s going to pick it up and see what it does. Story as old as the world.”

Liadrin’s lip twisted. “They flirt with their own destruction. Don’t they _learn_?”

“I’m not disagreeing.” He turned the retrieved dagger over in his hands; now cleansed of its fel taint, he had thought Halduron might like it as a souvenir – or perhaps not. “It’s a good thing Lunastre decided to tell us how he did it – and this fellow here doesn’t die easily.”

The old Grand Magister’s eyes flicked back to his friend; Liadrin’s followed. Lor’themar, Halduron and Rommath were as close to true friends as you might expect, given who they were and what they had done – although Liadrin was close to the fourth member of the triumvirate these days. It was only her work with the other paladins of Azeroth that kept her away from Silvermoon too much to play a truly active role in its government. The Blood Knight matriarch snapped the buckle on her bracer shut and stretched her hand to check movement.

“Indeed. It’s a good thing we didn’t just throw Light at it.” Reluctantly, “I suppose I owe Alamma an apology. He and Thalyssra saved Halduron’s life.”

“If I were you, I wouldn’t bother. Warlocks love it when paladins hate them.” That won Rommath a sour look and a shush from the priest-acolyte come to tend Halduron, so he retreated, moving the conversation to somewhere more distant, where they would not disturb their recovering friend’s rest. Liadrin looked like she’d sucked a sharp fruit.

“Then I shall love and forgive him,” she said, eventually. “Perhaps I’ll even praise his healing abilities, in the presence of some other warlocks. Do you think he’d like that?”

Rommath smiled. They were walking, both instinctively seeking some fresh air and light after the tension of the healing and the uncertainty of the outcome.

“I was actually meaning to ask you,” the Grand Magister said. “Since this business started I haven’t been out much, but what is the word on the street? How is the news landing in Silvermoon?”

“About this? Keeping it locked down as far as possible. The Farstriders know but that’s about it.”

“No, about the Regent Lord and his sun-inclined Dusk Lily.”

“Oh.” Liadrin rubbed her chin. “About as you might expect. Everybody loves babies. I’ve had paladins from the four corners of Azeroth asking me to pass on well-wishes. I didn’t even know what for, with the first one. I’m sure there were good reasons in announcing it in Suramar and not here.” She shrugged, her well-oiled armour sliding with the motion of her body. “Are they just going to jump back and forth through portals? I’m surprised he hasn’t asked her to marry him – or at least, I haven’t received an invitation to the wedding. That would seem to be the decent thing to do.”

“I’m sure Lor’themar would do the decent thing, no matter what.” Rommath, like many clever people, had that tone of voice that indicated sarcasm, even when it wasn’t intended. “Anyway, I have a feeling he is going to need our help in the months to come.”

“The timing could have been better,” Liadrin sighed, “but we are where we are. By the Light, I love Lor’themar more than my own life but he’s reckless; after all our people have endured, the last thing we need is a succession crisis if he manages to get himself killed. That business with Halduron was far closer than I’d like.”

“Paladins! Always the practicalities, never the happy moments that make life worth living,” Rommath teased, earning himself as cool a glare as he could get from Liadrin’s light-infused eyes.

\---

The first kiss was on her lips; chaste, yet sensuous; it promised what was to come. The second, on her chin, then her clavicle, then between her breasts.

_I know where you are going, Lor’themar._

He looked up, one lengthy golden brow twitching. He couldn’t speak back mind-to-mind – that was magery – but enjoying this intimacy as they were, he could manifest his feelings to an extent. _Are you quite sure of that_ , said his thoughts, the dimple in his cheek, the twitch in his fingers. He suddenly darted left, closing his lips around her plum-coloured nipple and gently encircling it with the tip of his tongue. That drew a soft sound of pleasure - and a caution.

_Mmh - careful. Sensitive._

He was careful, even paying attention not to breathe where he had licked, so as not to chill her. With their empathic link, the increased sensitivity in her changing body had an echo in his own, bringing warmth into his hands, stirring him to arousal. The next kiss was placed on the centre of her abdomen, just above the new, and growing, curve of her belly.

He looked up to meet her eyes, asking permission, and felt the welcome brush of her mind. _Yes, I want this. I want you…_

Involuntarily, he paused. His brow furrowed, his mind slipping away from hers, to dwell on the events of the day. She sensed the disengagement immediately, reaching down to capture his hands and draw him back up to his full height.

“Lor’themar… all is well.”

He sighed. “So easy to kill the moment when your very thoughts betray you.”

She gently nestled her forehead against his. “They have something still to say, and in my experience, we must let them be heard, or they will continue with these intrusions into our time. Very well. Let us be First Arcanist and Regent Lord again, for a time. I will fetch an hourglass. When those thoughts have had their moment – we can return to ours…”

Of course it was a magical hourglass. Lor’themar barely looked at it; he sat and gazed into his folded hands. The day played out again before him.

“ _Something has to change_ ,” he said, recalling her words, their conversation earlier. Thalyssra had done as promised; she returned within minutes with the contents of Anarys’s mind – the nature of his weapon, his allies, his plans, and the regrettable news that he had succumbed to the head wound Halduron dealt him and as such would be unable to stand trial in Silvermoon for his crime. The Duskwatch under Victoire had sprang into action even as the race to heal the stricken ranger-general hd taken place in Silvermoon; in Suramar, Anarys’s co-conspirators were rounded up to a man. The First Arcanist’s quick and decisive action had saved Halduron’s life and ended the conspiracy at a stroke. And yet -

“I wonder if we can keep this up. I find this jumping between ‘us’ and being who we are to the world… less straightforward than you seem to.”

“We all must wear our masks,” she responded. They had retreated to a place where they could recline; spellbound silks drifted around them, providing privacy and warmth. With the softest arcane hum, the hourglass followed.

“Yes, but enough of those and you begin to suffocate.” He shook his head. “We agreed uniting our peoples would pose too many challenges, and it’s not really what either of us want. We have both so recently overcome threats to our very existence – in our case, devastation, near-annihilation, then betrayal. We have not yet had a moment’s peace to discover what it means to be Sin’dorei. That leaves us with what we are doing – back-and-forth, one face by day, another by night.”

Thalyssra stretched out her body, shifting her hips to find more comfort. Her arcane focusing tattoos glistened in the dim light. “You fear for our child,” she observed.

“Yes,” he admitted. “I fear we are bringing into this world an innocent who has nowhere to belong, who will be called _outsider_ by both their peoples. The Horde tell stories of men and women who grew up and were not embraced by their tribe. None of them seem to end well.”

“I have also foreseen this,” she said, her voice hesitant now, as it had been before, when they last spoke about the future. “I see resentment, rage. Ruin. I feel it growing within me.”

Lor’themar turned to her, just as the hourglass blinked; there was a soft, bell-like tinkle. She reached for his hands. “… but I see you, and I trust that we will find the way, even if we must overcome a thousand days like today has been. Each day is just that, a day, and a day is made up of moments. Our child was conceived in a moment of love. That is the right way to begin; we can always come back to that.”

“I still feel…” he began, but her finger brushed his lips.

“We gave it a moment. Shall we speak of things beyond our control all night, or will you honour me with your presence, Lor’themar – all of it?” She ran her hand down the side of his face, meeting his eyes with her own. He didn’t realise he had been frowning; there was tension in his body, shadows pooling in the creases in his brow, an ache in his shoulders. Her caress was an invitation to let go, to be Lor’themar until, in eight hours, it was time to be the Regent Lord again.

“I am here with you,” he affirmed.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lor'themar and Thalyssra deal in their own ways with being Horde representatives and de facto heads of state, as Thalyssra's pregnancy advances.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New among the things I've had to overthink for this story: Nightborne fangs and claws as an impediment to sex. 
> 
> Thank you for your kind kudos and comments. I write for my own amusement but it makes me happy to see others getting something out of the fic too.

“To lead is to stand alone.” – Thalyssra

\---

It was the four of them: no Ly’leth, no Lor’themar. Even the silent attendants were gone. Thalyssra, in autumn colours, a flush in her cheeks, the finest tailoring no longer capable of hiding her pregnancy. Valtrois and Oculeth favoured a more sombre appearance, their midnight robes blending into the shadows of the Nightspire, while Victoire stood silently behind the First Arcanist, awaiting command.

“They are unhappy,” Oculeth confirmed. “But we knew they would be. The idea always was to give it back. They feel twice wronged by us.”

Valtrois scoffed. “What, to all four of them? The Moon Guard haven’t the power to _use_ it any more. It ought to be kept where it’s needed.”

Thalyssra turned to Oculeth. “Did you manage to speak with Farodin?”

The old telemancer nodded. “As we expected. His work with the Fal’dorei continues. He won’t cause any trouble.” Feeling Thalyssra’s eyes still on him, he reluctantly added, “He says that your arrogance and your fixation with the arcane will be your undoing.”

“Well, he would, wouldn’t he,” said Valtrois. “Oh, for the superiority complex of a Night Elf. We shut down the Nightwell and use its housing to grow flowers, we route every ley line in Suramar into a tree, and still they’re not happy.”

“I have to make decisions for our people,” said Thalyssra, softly. In her cupped hands, the hourglass hummed, spilling a little light into the dark room. “Those here now, and the ones to come. The arcane has always been our strength, even without the Nightwell. There are those who would have us silently watch over the legacy of the ancients, like Farodin and his seed – doing nothing, feeling nothing, until we might as well be ghosts. Then there are the Wildswalkers who would have me dismantle not only the Nightwell, but our city, our traditions - who we are. I have set a different course for us, but I expect to be opposed every step of the way. Sometimes I have to override people's wishes to do what is best for them, and that is hard for me; I am First because I resisted tyranny, not because I wished to become a tyrant. I will have to do things you may find strange, or evil, even. Once the last fruit of the Arcan’dor has been plucked, it will be time.”

“We are with you, Thalyssra,” Valtrois affirmed. “Just… let us in.”

“A scientist never takes anything on trust,” pointed out Oculeth, “but Arcanist Valtrois and I believe in you, even if you do not yet see fit to share everything with us. It is a simple evaluation of evidence of your conduct to date.”

Thalyssra turned. “Victoire?”

The First Blade inclined her head. “Permission to speak plainly, First Arcanist?”

“Speak.”

“This talk of ley energies and Astromancer’s Keystones means nothing to me. When you ally with demons and murder children, we’ll have a problem. Until then, the Duskwatch stands with you. We’ll defend this city with our lives.”

Thalyssra’s hands closed around the hourglass-shaped keystone. “It is good to have the loyalty of my friends. You reassure me I am not becoming ‘the next Elisande, the next Azshara’, as High Priestess Whisperwind would have me be.”

She pocketed the artefact, her breath catching slightly as the child within her kicked, warmed by the proximity of its arcane field. Her hand went to her belly, feeling the undulation, the stirring life within her growing stronger each day.

“I wonder, if I hadn’t found myself in this position, how long I might have delayed what must be done for the future of our people.”

\---

It could only be Nazjatar, in the dream; the brackish salt-air and kelp-stained wind in his nostrils, the feeling of impending doom. In the dream the water closed in above them, slicing through the sunlight, so everything had a greenish cast. The walls around them reared up like oceanic cathedrals; fury suspended. Thalyssra was speaking to him, but he could not hear her over the roaring of the water. He thought she was afraid.

The laughter rose over them like a wave, and with a splintering, rupturing crash, the sea came plummeting down on their heads.

Lor’themar jolted awake. It took him a moment to realise where he was, but once he did, he performed the ritual he had done since his first battle impeded his sleep, one taught by the elder Farstriders: he pressed his hands and feet into the roughspun linen, he opened his eyes wide, he drew a deep breath. _I am here, not there, this is real, that was not._

Nightmares aside, he had long believed you never could get a good night’s sleep in Orgrimmar. The accommodation was furnished to elven tastes, but the heat was relentless, and the city never really slept. Even now, in the pre-dawn gloom, peons were at work, shipments were being hauled in from Bladefist and beyond, and the muggy air was punctuated every hour or so with the drubbing whirr of propeller blades.

He wasn’t one for dreams, neither dwelling on them nor their interpretation. Barefoot, he crossed the room and soaked a cloth in tepid water, then wiped his face and shoulders clear of sweat. Nazjatar was their shared past, and something was looming over them in their near future, growing day by day, although hopefully not like the weight of the ocean.

Thalyssra was curled on her side, having claimed most of the pillows and arranged them around herself, one under her belly, one between her thighs, her long hair spilling forward over her face as she embraced yet another (Lor’themar’s). Her sleep seemed peaceful, and the residual arcane sheen over her skin at least kept the biting insects off both of them. The scene before him couldn’t be further from Nazjatar. Why did it trouble his mind now?

Their time together had been less frequent of late due to their duties, but the end of summer banquet was explicitly in their honour; there was no avoiding it. The night before they had managed a little time to themselves. Thalyssra’s swelling belly was proving an obstacle to some of the ways they had loved before, so they had had to find new ways. He had oiled his hands and run them up and down her back, her buttocks, her legs, finding the tension and easing it out. She carried a heavy burden, in more ways than one.

Then, she had – unusually – actually wanted to take him in her mouth, which was a shuddering delight that nearly undid him. The common soldiery used to joke about the dangers of letting a Night Elf suck you off (the sharp, pointy teeth). He had explained this to Thalyssra, as they rested afterwards.

“Don’t fear for your manhood, Blood Elf. By the power of the Nightwell, we made them retractable,” she had said, and then burst out laughing when he seemed inclined to believe her, for a moment. He did not get bitten. For that moment, with her soft, hot mouth enveloping his head, those big, clawed Nightborne hands caressing his thighs and roaming beyond, into the coiled gold of his pubes, the sensitive, secret place behind his sack where few had ever explored - he might not have minded.

What they hadn’t done recently was lie together mind-to-mind; there were parts of herself she wanted to close off, he presumed, but the loving of the body was more than adequate. “I feel like a brute, I should leave you alone,” he’d said, nuzzling into her fragrant neck from behind, hands cupping her belly, her breasts. She’d smiled. “I will tell you when I’ve had enough,” she said.

Now that, that would have been a better dream. Behind closed lids he saw the water again, heard the splintering wood, the screams of drowning men.

He rubbed his eyes and spontaneously decided to take Geya’rah, the Mag’har chief, up on her offer. He needed something to shake off the thoughts that clouded the mind, and a hunt had always cleared his head.

\---

They rode out at dawn, before the sun reached its zenith and made the work unbearable, although clouds to the south promised heavy rain by nightfall. The Regent Lord astride his hawkstrider and the Warlord on her war wolf set out across the red dust, two bright specks in an arid landscape.

Geya’rah spat. “Your guards are trying to follow you.” It was true; a band of harassed-looking Sin’dorei were mounting up, in pursuit of their reckless regent-lord. On the battlements over the gate, he thought he could pick out the disapproving, red-robed shape of Rommath – no doubt behind the escort, and – was that Valtrois?

“I suppose,” he called back to her, leading, “we are now hunter and hunted. Let’s see if we can lose them.”

The orc chieftain grunted, squaring her shoulders; Lor’themar had the impression she’d asked the fancy elf to the boar hunt expecting a polite decline; now he was here, and behaving like this, perhaps she didn’t know what to make of him. For his part, he didn’t know the Mag’har overlord well either, but he wondered if she was not too different from him – a warrior, forced to play the politician’s role, and chafing against it.

With a click in the throat and a harsh word she spurred her mount onward; from what he could make out of her face, he figured she approved. A sharp sprint south of Orgrimmar’s gate was enough to kick up a covering trail of dust, and leading the guards on into the glare of the rising sun; Geya’rah was a warrior rather than a hunter, but she knew the tactics well enough. They split up, then rejoined one another; doubled back and wove around the wind-scoured pillars of northern Durotar. She shouted a laugh as they rounded an overhanging bluff and found themselves quite alone. Lor’themar grinned in response and spurred his mount hard. The country was rough but taking it this way sloughed off the memories of the siege, Garrosh holding the Horde capital against him, the elven blood dried into the dust here.

The dust thinned as they approached Thunder Ridge. The land was pockmarked, scarred by war, wind and the Cataclysm; Geya’rah checked her wolf’s speed, lest it catch a paw and go lame. Lor’themar scratched the rough feathery neck of his own mount; the faithful hawkstrider could run at full pelt through the root-tangle of southern Eversong; it would be sure-footed here. He was of a mood to go fast and the quarry was at hand. He signalled his intention to Geya’rah, then plunged ahead, into the thorny brush. Geya’rah turned her rein north, to cut off potential escape routes into the mire of the river below.

Gnarled branches slashed at him, the hot wind came up off the Southfury delta, cicadas croaked and, coming into sight of the beast, he finally shook off the lingering traces of the dream. It wasn’t an everyday boar; this one was a king, fit for a Horde banquet. Nobody in this unforgiving country hunted for mere sport; this was a tradition of Draenor that Geya’rah had proposed, and Thrall accepted. They would tussle with the harsh land and have it give up its bounty, or take their lives. It would imbue the feast with a dignity and decency, a spirit of the Horde that pre-dated their lives on Azeroth. Life and death, sun and dust, blood and thunder. Affixing his people to the Horde had been a matter of convenience – and survival – but after some years inside it, despite everything, he would be lying if he said there was nothing good in it, nothing that spoke to him.

The boar ran, but the hunter ran faster. It was good to act on instinct, to hear the breath of the beast and feel his own rise to match. The important thing about the kill was that it was quick and kind; you had to be close for that, but it would be more dangerous to do it that way, as a cornered animal could be unpredictable. They edged around each other, hooves pawing at the churned up ground. Its hide was bristled, scar-thick, one baleful eye on the hunter, the other blind, like his own. He was closing in.

It would charge, he knew in the instant, but the beast was wily, springing aside at the last moment, and he narrowly escaped a goring, the tusk shearing across his upper thigh. That brought it close enough to land the harpoon, and it was dead, heart pierced, hot blood lapping his hand. He was with it as the bright malevolent eye lost its spark.

Geya’rah approached from behind, dismounting to join him on foot. He hadn’t realised until then that she had not been with him and he’d dared the kill alone. The orc didn’t fault him for his recklessness or for taking the honour for himself; she eyed up the beast and nodded. This one passed muster; they had honoured the rite, and the little blood spilt of the hunting party made it better. She did not offer aid for his wound; he did not ask for it. Together they fell to gutting the boar, preparing it for the return trip.

They reached the gates of Orgrimmar before noon. He thanked Geya’rah and invited her to Quel’thalas, where different beasts roamed. By her easy assent, he figured he’d made a friend in the Mag’har and shown the Blood Elves in a good light. It was diplomacy of a kind he rarely had chance to practice. As his politician’s mind returned, the tusk-gash to his thigh began to throb, and it began. It was as if they smelt him.

“Regent Lord, you are bleeding. Let me see to that.”

“Regent Lord, your correspondence…”

He allowed them to do as they must; his mount was led away to water, two squires appeared and began stripping off his armour; a third offered his back for Lor’themar to rest on as he quickly scrawled his signature on a provisioning order. The wound was shallow but long; the healer thought it might require a stitch or three, and a clean. He was about to receive a pursed-lipped lecture about risk-taking when another messenger joined the throng of fussers.

“Regent Lord, the First Arcanist asks for you… ah, I’ll let her know you’re with the healer.”

“You most certainly will not.” Lor’themar shrugged off the squires currently occupied with his pauldrons. Giving Thalyssra cause to worry about him was not to be countenanced. “My lady commands; I will go to her.” He turned and strode off, making an almost successful attempt not to limp.

\---

“First Arcanist?”

Her eyes were screwed shut, her entire body coiled in on itself, as if to squeeze out the pain through her skin. Her breathing came sawing, rapidly; her forehead was beaded with sweat.

Victoire was kneeling at her side. “First Arcanist, Regent Lord Theron is here.”

It receded, as it always did, in time. “Thank you – you are dismissed,” she breathed, moving unsteadily, lest it return.

Victoire was still there, dismissed but insubordinate, gleaming in her new armour.

“First Arcanist – Thalyssra. You are not well. Don’t go to the banquet. Let us help you.” Her intonation was odd, as if she had been holding back her thoughts for a long time, and exposed to the air, they decompressed suddenly, delivered with more feeling than intended. Thalyssra looked hard at Victoire.

“Thank you for your concern, but I know my own capabilities.”

“I sometimes don’t think you do, First Arcanist. I serve Suramar – all of Suramar. That includes Thalyssra the person, as well as Thalyssra the First Arcanist.”

“If you did, you would do as I say.” Thalyssra swiped at her forehead and cheeks with a cloth. Unsettled by the cramps, the child was kicking again; there was a stomach-acid taste in her mouth that came out in her words.

“I could have said, once a defector, always a defector, particularly one who didn’t see fit to defect until _after_ the Waning Crescent - but I saw your qualities and made you my First Blade. If you wish to stab me in the back now, you must do as you see fit, but I warn you – greater elves have tried.”

Victoire performed the salute perfectly; her bow was deep, signalling absolute submission. “First Arcanist,” she said, retreating silently on bare feet. There was a brief exchange, then the door of the First Arcanist’s chambers shut with a thud of heavy seasoned wood.

Lor’themar was there: golden, dust-streaked, a bloodied rag about his right thigh. He couldn’t appear more at odds with Thalyssra, manicured and coiffed in the Nightborne style, ready for the celebration.

“What happened to you?”

It came out higher and more accusatory than she intended, the tension of dealing with Victoire coming out in her voice. Lor’themar wasn’t easily thrown off his stride; he crossed the room, only slightly favouring his left leg. “Nothing much. The sight of you heals all wounds. I won’t touch you til I’ve bathed, though. Is all well?”

She exhaled. “Well enough. Our little one has been doing somersaults all day. I'm very tired. I’m not sure I will manage the banquet.”

It was a lot for Thalyssra to admit weakness, although they had both been getting better at that lately. Immediately concerned, he reached for her hands, being careful to avoid soiling the folds of her festival dress with the blood and grime on him.

“I don’t blame you at all, they are hot, noisy and drunken affairs, trying at the best of times. You must rest tonight, then - but perhaps it would be good just to show our faces? This party is in honour of our child… the Horde has traditions, and the shaman will mutter and talk about omens if we don’t appear.”

“Of course.” She straightened up, reaching to adjust her arcane headpiece, re-aligning one of the glowing, orbiting lights with her fingertips. “ _Quel’vala thonos._ Besides, my enchanter didn’t spend half the day fitting this for me not to be seen in it, although it is starting to make my head ache.”

He caressed her fingers, unconsciously reaching for where her mind-touch might be, but it was not there now. No matter. “We’ll make an appearance, then, and as soon as we’ve done that you can take your crown- ah, thing off. No-one could fault you for going to rest afterwards. In fact, I’m tempted to join you.”

Thalyssra cocked an eyebrow. “Crown-thing?”

That was all the time they got, as it was at this moment that Lor’themar’s entourage caught up and the soft moment was punctured by a cacophony of voices speaking of stitching his wound and what garment conveyed the right impression and a thousand other things that all seemed, to him, less important than something tugging on his mind that he could not quite integrate into his thoughts.

Over Orgrimmar, thunder rumbled.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rommath and Valtrois talk realpolitik and being the second-in-command, while the Horde unites to celebrate the first fruitful union among its leaders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Debated putting this in, having a bit of a conflict between reassurance and not spoiling the ending. With that in mind - I haven’t warned for maternal death/infant loss because that sort of thing won’t be appearing in this story. There have been some ominous foreshadowings and the story isn't over yet, but Mum and baby will be OK. I write for fun and escapism and I feel the world is grim enough without that in fanfic. 
> 
> Yams don’t determine sex, as Talanji suggests here, although there has been some interesting research into whether they have anything to do with high rates of multiple birth.

With one eye on the approaching storm, Grand Magister Rommath’s attention was not on the stairs; he took them two at a time, a brusque word or elbow for anyone who stepped into his path. It was easy to get into a fight in Orgrimmar if you weren’t careful; most recognised the Grand Magister and thought better of it.

  
  


The wind was still hot up here, although night was falling; torches were lit among the ramparts, adding the smell of burning pitch to the sensory assault that was the Horde capital. The distant, occasional rumble from the heavy clouds seemed to do nothing to halt festivities; oiled skins and stakes were laid out, ready to be deployed as a canopy should the weather turn. Then there was the feast table – a tree, roughly split and levelled; the prize boar Geya’rah and Lor’themar had brought back was slowly pit-roasting, while cauldrons bubbled, barrels were heaved into position, and ovens were stoked. Rommath had no taste for it.

  
  


It seemed he wasn’t alone in that. Valtrois, the Nightborne arcanist, stood at the end of the ramparts, gazing out over the Dranosh’ar Blockade towards the river. Up here was one of the few places you could catch a whisper of a breeze; it lifted her pale hair and fluttered through her summer robe. Even in a pensive moment her shoulders were back, her chin tilted back like an empress surveying imagined troops below.

  
  


“Valtrois,” he admitted, then, turning the chance meeting into intention: “I thought I might find you up here.”

  
  


“You were looking for me?” An arched eyebrow. “Well, here I am. In truth, up here is the only place that doesn’t _stink_.”

  
  


“That stink,” Rommath pointed out, “is your Horde. You would do well to show respect to your host, particularly as your people have so recently begged admission.”

  
  


Valtrois was taken aback. “I did not mean-”

  
  


“I know.” Rommath flexed his shoulders. “In truth, I come up here for that reason too, although there are some quiet beaches along the river within easy porting distance, if you ever find the city too much. Just mind the murlocs.”

  
  


Confusion knit on Valtrois’ brow. Everything about Rommath’s body language indicated that he was relaxed, at ease here, but his words were at odds with it; even more so what he said next.

  
  


“I am about to be extremely frank with you, Arcanist Valtrois.”

  
  


“Should I request a chair, or cushions, perhaps, lest I swoon?”

  
  


Rommath didn’t really smile, but there was a twitch in the corner of his mouth.

  
  


“You and I occupy a comparable role in our respective governments as senior mages and, broadly, second-in-command. I might go as far as to say that I see something of myself in you.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “Both of us had our role thrust upon us; we distinguished ourselves by academic success and magical aptitude, and then found the reins of power thrust into our hands. All of a sudden we found our education to be peculiarly inadequate.” 

  
  


He scrutinised the horizon as he continued to speak. “ I have long been an advocate of the ‘sink or swim’ approach, and under normal circumstances I would have left you to it – but the fates of Silvermoon and Suramar are now inexorably intertwined by the, shall we say, bond, between their leaders.  If Suramar  skins a knee , Silvermoon  bleeds . ”

  
  


“How kind of you to think of me – although, I assure you, coaching will _not_ be required. It’s true I lack experience with the world beyond Suramar, but all political life thrived under our shield; it was quite the hot-house for intrigue and manoeuvring.” She looked up at the sky. “Do you think it’s about to rain?”

  
  


“That storm has been brewing all day. Hopefully it’ll hold off for the feast.” There was a ripple of applause from below.

  
  


“That’ll be them,” Valtrois observed, and it was – Lor’themar decked out in his red and gold regalia, looking – to Rommath’s eye – quite regal. Thalyssra, in white, had struck the balance between blossoming mother-to-be and ethereal elegance, with an impressive arcane construction atop her head that occasionally rotated and spun. The happy couple began the obligatory circuit of greetings as Rommath and Valtrois watched from on high. 

  
  


“No, Valtrois. I am talking about leadership. If anything befalls Thalyssra, are you ready to step into her shoes?” He began to walk, expecting Valtrois to follow. 

  
  


The nightborne frowned. “I hadn’t really thought about it. I suppose,  _technically_ , the second-most-senior arcanist would stand forward, although there’s some question whether that is I or the Chief Telemancer.  We would have to find out what the precedent is; it’d predate Elisande so that’s a dusty old book or three to scour. It’s hypothetical, though.  Thalyssra brought us back from the brink of withering in exile, she took back our city and rid us of our addiction.  She’s our leader, not me.  She’s not going to let a  _baby_ stop her.”

  
  


Rommath paused for a moment; they walked in silence, passing a patrol of two orcs as they traversed the rampart.

  
  


“I used to know a man who I admired immensely,” said Rommath. “A gifted magister, a noble prince truly devoted to his people. There was nothing he wouldn’t do to relieve their suffering. We all loved him and trusted him to do what was best for us. I, personally, brought his teachings home to Silvermoon; I exiled dissenters, I enforced his law.” His pace quickened, obliging Valtrois to half-jog to keep up, avoiding sharp protrusions on the iron walkway with her bare feet. 

  
  


“He betrayed us. Utterly, completely, and out of the blue. He saw our people on their knees and kicked us in the teeth.” The old magister’s eyes narrowed in remembered pain. “At a stroke he made Lor’themar’s regency permanent and taught our people not to trust, but to plan, to prepare.” He stopped and turned on Valtrois. “You need to start thinking the unthinkable. Not out of disloyalty, but for our people’s survival. If Thalyssra drops dead tomorrow, or loses her mind and becomes the slave of something from the dark Beyond, or merely decides to retire from her role and kiss her baby’s chubby cheeks all day, you need to be ready.”

  
  


“Well, in that unlikely event, of course I would be ready to - ”

  
  


“I mean immediately. Not have a meeting about who has precedence or sit around poring over the tomes of lore. You need to seize power, put down any opposition and rule with a firm hand. In the meantime, you need to establish yourself as Thalyssra’s second, ‘Arcanist’. Get yourself a better title. I understand why Thalyssra hasn’t named herself Queen or Grand Magistrix but you need something that differentiates you from every mage in the city. Stop doing forward command missions, you’re too important for that. The survival of both our peoples could be at stake.”

  
  


Valtrois blinked. “That is… something to think about.” 

  
  


Overhead, there was a flicker in the clouds, then,  two seconds later,  the  deep-throated rumble promising rain to come. 

  
  


“See that you do. In a spirit of openness, I should add I have a plan for if you don’t. Also one for if Oculeth opposes you and you fight over the leadership, and a variety of contingencies for other unlikely, yet possible, events.”

  
  


“I had no idea it was the chief mage’s role to be spymaster and grand schemer, too.”

  
  


“It’s not. I just make it my business to know things. For example, I know what Thalyssra did with the fellow who tried to kill Halduron. He didn’t die of his injuries, did he?” 

  
  


Valtrois blinked as the first, fat drop of rain struck her forehead. 

  
  


“Impossible.”

  
  


“I didn’t actually know for certain until you pulled that face, but thank you for confirming it. Please, don’t look at me that way. I am not your enemy, and I am not trying to humiliate you. You’re probably the more gifted mage of the two of us – no, you’re doing it again – your ears move when people flatter you. Avoid that. But I mean it, you’re a talented magistrix and, I think, there’s a politician in you too. I have no great love for you personally, but I serve Silvermoon’s interest, and right now, that means shoring up the rather fragile walls of Thalyssra’s regime.”

  
  


Valtrois blinked again.  “You certainly have been frank. I rather feel like I do need to sit down, Grand Magister.”

  
  


“It’s Rommath – for now. Come on, then, let’s descend into the _stink_. Lor’themar and Thalyssra might have need of our eyes and ears… hopefully not our noses.”

  
  


\---

  
  


“De child will be a boy,” Talanji pronounced.

  
  


“Really?” Thalyssra took a sip from her horn mug of sweet melon juice. “How can you tell?”

  
  


The young queen gestured to the First Arcanist’s plate. “Yams. You want to eat them all  of de time, right? It’s meant to be a sure sign. Pickleberries for a girl.  That’s  de old Zandalari way of telling. ”

  
  


Thalyssra disguised a wave of nausea at the thought of eating a pickleberry, but it was the broad-shouldered Tauren woman at her other side that responded.

  
  


“Yams aren’t so common in the mountains. Among my people, we put a lot of stock in a mother’s intuition. It is said that a woman who carries a child gains the gift of foresight, particularly if it is her first-born. What do you think, First Arcanist?”

  
  


Thalyssra’s arcane regalia orbited as she thought how best to answer the Highmountain  leader . Behind them, fully fifteen peons grunted, struggling to get the now-tender, roasted boar onto a serving platter big enough to roof a sizeable building. 

  
  


“The doors of intuition seem to be closed to me today, so I’ll have to rely on the yams,” she said, earning a grin from Talanji and a warm smile from the Tauren chieftain – but it was the Forsaken representative Thalyssra turned to next.

  
  


In death, Lilian Voss’s tendons were slacker than before, giving her jaw a permanently sullen look, and the eerie glow of her eyes was inscrutable. Thalyssra knew Lilian’s people were forever cut off from the ability to create life, and while viscerally repulsed by what Lilian was, as well as what appeared to be a stitch line running from jaw to temple – Voss literally wore someone else’s face – Thalyssra remembered what it was to have people recoil from her own wrecked, emaciated body. She leaned in close to her to speak in confidence.

  
  


“I hope this isn’t making you feel unwelcome,” she whispered to the undead representative.

  
  


Lilian’s body language made up for the lack of expression in her face; her shoulders slackened, her eyes widened, and she turned to face Thalyssra. “Nobody has ever asked me that before,” she said, her voice a cracked whisper. She looked down at her hands. “I suppose my choice has been taken away from me, but... I was raised to fight and kill; I think, even had things turned out differently, I can’t picture myself as a mother.” And then, throatily; “I am truly happy for you, Thalyssra. This is… good for the Horde.”

  
  


Thalyssra smiled – even reaching out to clasp the undead woman’s cold fingers. Lilian looked startled, then pulled back her flaking lips into something like a smile.

  
  


Thalyssra briefly locked eyes with Lor’themar, as if to say, _you brought the boar, but I can do Horde diplomacy with the best of them, too._

  
  


With a great grunt of effort from the peons and – was that some sort of goblin crane – the main dish, the pit-roasted boar, was laid before them. There was a general rumble of appreciation around the table and a banging of tankards, but this was Thrall’s horde; the tradition would be met,  and all fell silent . The old warchief stood at the head of the table with Lor’themar on his left and Geya’rah to his right – the hunters that made the feast possible. Toasts were raised to them, to the land of Durotar on which they stood, to the elements, to the spirits, and finally, to the new mother and father.

  
  


Thrall spoke: “May the sun warm you, the rain fall gently on you - ” that was accompanied by a rumble of thunder, and a titter from some of the onlookers – “and as for the three of you, children of the Horde, may you walk a straight path together, in strength and honour.” 

  
  


Thalyssra did not quite know what to say, so followed Lor’themar, accepting the blessing with a  respectfully bowed head. 

  
  


As if on cue, the rain began to pelt down  on them ; peons ran to grab the canopies as lightning split the sky and the thunder boomed out over the Horde capital.  Rommath and Valtrois also took this moment to teleport in, and immediately regretted doing so into the open.  The Grand Magister effused enough fiery heat to keep it off his skin, but poor Valtrois fled for shelter, her bare feet splashing in puddles.  It was torrential. 

  
  


“Barrier magic,” Thalyssra shouted over the drumming rain, “ has always been my speciality. Please, allow me to assist.” With that, she raised her arms, calling on the arcane within and without. It was no Suramar; the residual magic here was different but the task much more manageable. That barrier, that had endured invasion and sundering for ten millennia, was what secured her ascension to First Arcanist; perhaps this one would solidify her place in the Horde. 

  
  


A roar of applause went up as the arcane dome spanned the Valley of Strength. The fat raindrops broke on the outside of it, coursing down the sides as if it were a glass house. As a final flourish, little stardrops of residual arcane energy drifted down from above, elevating the banquet with a touch of Shal’dorei elegance. 

  
  


Lor’themar put his hands together. “One more toast,”  he called out, and a yell came from somewhere down the table, “ Mother of Umbrella s !” Laughter, towels to dry the raindrops, reprieved peons starting on the kegged ale - and Lor’themar,  her lover,  at the head of the table, with stars falling around him. 

  
  


It came over her like a knife in the guts. 

  
  


Pain like this wasn’t  _reasonable;_ her  mind told her  as her vision went red , not  _rational_ , and – at last – could no longer be ignored  or put aside . It doubled her over, drove her nails into her palms; it rent a scream from her that had no words, barely had humanity, even. She met the boar’s  silent, conquered eyes and knew this was what dying animals felt, it was dark, primal, unbearable.  She felt something within her jack-knife; blackness crowded into her vision with unseen hands, not before a last glimpse at their shocked faces, and fractures ripping through her dome as she lost control of the spell. 

  
  


Everyone was moving, now; when she fell, he caught her, she was sure, but beyond that, she was unaware of any more.

  
  


\---  
  
  
  


“Wearing out the floor,” Stellagosa said, reasonably, “isn’t going to help.”

  
  


Valtrois stopped, sighed, stretched, then resumed her pacing, her arms folded to her chest. The blue dragon, in her slight high-elven form, stepped into Valtrois’s path, catching the distressed nightborne by the arms. “Talk to me.”

  
  


“I don’t know how to fix this,” Valtrois said, eventually. She let out a shaky breath. “I don’t know what to _do_.”

  
  


The portal flashed open, quickly disgorging a Rommath, who did not even slow his pace for stepping between continents. “I’ve informed Halduron,” he said. “He’s well enough to manage things in Silvermoon. Anything I need to be aware of?”

  
  


Valtrois and Stellagosa shook their heads. There had been no developments in the past hour. The healers had bundled Thalyssra away, and Lor’themar had refused to leave her side, and that left them, listening and waiting. Benches were there, but they went unused. Rommath was full of the same nervous energy as Valtrois; he couldn’t stand still. 

  
  


“Is this something to do with her Nightfallen state?” he asked. “The two of you were starved half to death before the Arcan’dor; any lasting effects?”

  
  


Valtrois responded: “Some. Oculeth had hair, before. It never grew back. As for me, my menses didn’t return.”

  
  


Most men might have looked away, but Rommath was too focused on the solution. Valtrois continued: “I’m glad, that always was a nuisance. But Thalyssra obviously didn’t lose her fertility. Of all of us, she seemed to recover best.”

  
  


“Then what?” he asked, directed at no-one in particular. It was Stellagosa that responded.

  
  


“My people can no longer bear eggs, so our whelplings are the last of us… but when we could, we weren’t able to lay just anywhere. The underlying energies had to be of the right sort, and intensity.”

  
  


“Explain.” Rommath studied the dragon woman intensely. “What’s the relevance?”

  
  


“The energies of the Nighwell flow through the veins of every Shal’dorei, even now it is gone. Valtrois tells me children conceived before both parents were nourished of the Arcfruit are born addicted, and need to be made whole.”

  
  


“We don’t have enough data for those born _after_ , as Thalyssra only recently lifted the restriction,” Valtrois put in.

  
  


“That is the fate of the Nightborne – but what of the Blood Elves? Your people bathe in the restored Sunwell; there is a font of Light at the heart of your kingdom. Lor’themar has been closer to it than most, hasn’t he?”

  
  


Rommath narrowed his eyes. “How do you know that?”

  
  


“Dragon,” mouthed Valtrois.

  
  


“Are you saying,” said Rommath, slowly, “that there’s something in the Nightborne that recoils from the Light? Impossible – Valtrois here has stood in the presence of the Sunwell and suffered no ill-effects – which is more than can be said for that void-riddled Windrunner woman,” he added darkly.

  
  


“I was seeing spots for a little while. It’s bright. But it didn’t harm us.”

  
  


“It’s an idea. I’m a ley-watcher, not a healer,” Stellagosa put in softly. “This is the first ever union of Sin’dorei and Shal’dorei. What we know now may not help us.”

  
  


“I’m taking it to Lor’themar. I cannot _abide_ waiting.”

  
  


With that, Rommath teleported, leaving the dragon and the nightborne alone.

  
  


Valtrois pushed her hands through her still-damp hair. “First, one of ours tries to kill one of theirs, now, we are void-tainted, my best friend may be dying, and I -”

  
  


“Valtrois, please breathe. Slowly.”

  
  


“I don’t know what to do,” she managed, gulping in air. “I _don’t know where to begin._ ”

  
  


Stellagosa took the arcanist in her arms. The blue dragon’s festival dress was elaborate, the sleeves trailing in a manner intended to resemble stylised wings. Now they enfolded Valtrois in a protective cocoon. She softly stroked Valtrois’s hair and made soft, soothing noises into her ear, the same purrs and clicks she might use to soothe a frightened whelpling. This continued until the elf’s fast, agitated heartbeat had slowed, and her breathing returned to normal.

  
  


“We will take it one day at a time, as Thalyssra is fond of saying.” Stellagosa whispered. She planted a soft kiss on Valtrois’ brow. “Whatever happens, you will face none of it alone.”

  
  



	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thalyssra recalls the making of the Nightwell, Lor'themar strengthens a friendship and alliance, and a desperate search for a remedy is undertaken.

Mana-flushed, the three of them stumbled part-way down the steps and, as if by mutual agreement, collapsed there.

  
  


“The… the _enormity -_ ” Vandros breathed.

  
  


“No one, before, has ever - ”

  
  


“Not even Azshara…” That was Thalyssra, who lay back, the sweat cooling between her breasts, gazing up at the barrier dome which no longer felt like a prison.

  
  


Elisande alone remained silent. The Grand Magistrix shivered in the sudden chill, drawing her arms in close around her and looking away from the others. The senior magi were naked, as was customary for work that took them to the edge of magical possibility; each had a new ring of focusing tattoos on their abdomens, hands and feet to contain the unstable energies they had brought to bear. For a while, none of them seemed to be able to form sentences or finish a thought. Thalyssra felt she might slip into sleep right there. Vandros was smiling softly to himself, propped against a pillar. By the work they had done today, the names of each of them would be written in legend forever as the saviours of their people.

  
  


Through drooping eyelids,  Thalyssra  watched Elisande; gamine, hard-bodied, her hair – emerald, then – cropped close to her skull. Once  Thalyssra had vied for her position, but today, she knew her own ambition had reached its ceiling; Elisande was the stronger, and she was content.  She recalled the Grand Magistrix  as she had been in the ritual, elevated, commanding,  _dominating_ the Eye of Aman’Thul as the others poured their power into her. Thalyssra remembered Elisande’s word of command rising to a scream over the roaring tide of mana and the spinning of the concentric rings, that abruptly broke off as the bore struck –  _something –_ (the ley junction, they later concluded) and the manastorm eased, the river flowed upwards – strong, deep, its colour shifting from chromatic white to lilac to a deep, saturated violet. 

  
  


“I wonder why it went that colour,” Vandros said out loud.

  
  


Thalyssra’s eyes  drifted to the dome above. The conduit of power ran upwards, through the Eye, before shattering on the barrier and fragmenting into a rain of falling stars. They slowed as they fell, drifting down onto the parks and vineyards close to the Grand Promenade. Dimly, she could hear raised voices of wonder and praise – not for Elune, but for the Grand Magistrix.

  
  


“How this was done must remain our secret.”

  
  


Thalyssra pulled her attention back; Elisande was speaking to both of them. Weariness cracked through her voice, but she fixed them both with an imperious glare. 

  
  


“Destroy your notes. We will only tell them what they need to know – that our winter of hunger has ended.”

  
  


So many things were on pain of exile these days,  it didn’t need to be said . As one, they answered, “Yes, Grand Magistrix.” Dazed, but lucid still, Thalyssra could see her old friend and mentor was trembling, but when she reached out,  hesitantly,  to touch her, her  bare  skin was warm.  She seemed to recall that Elisande actually flinched at the gesture of comfort, the flicker of fear in her eyes something Thalyssra had never seen before. 

  
  


“Come, we cannot address the people like this,” she suggested. Elisande looked at her in a way Thalyssra didn’t recognise, then something in her seemed to give, her expression softened, she accepted Thalyssra’s help, letting her First Arcanist draw a loose robe around her bare shoulders. The headpiece was heavy, but as Thalyssra placed it on Elisande’s brow, the moment of doubt, or vulnerability, or whatever it was, seemed to flee; the de facto Queen of Suramar looked unassailable and inscrutable as she ever did. 

  
  


As they descended from the Font of Night, in the footsteps of their Grand Magistrix, Thalyssra couldn’t help but glance backward at the Nightspire, now suffused with wine-dark energy thrumming upwards into her barrier.

  
  


\---  
  
  


  
  


While she slept, he wrote – or tried to write. The page remained as mockingly empty as it had been an hour ago, titled in neat Thalassian script: 

  
  


Journal of the Regent Lord

Entry -

  
  


He had lost count; jotting notes in his travel journal to be written up later had this disadvantage.

  
  


People had it wrong about Lor’themar, that he wasn’t a thinker, just a man of action thrust into a king’s role and hating every second of it. He put his thoughts into words, whenever his responsibilities allowed; the prose flowed, the handwriting neither a scholar’s scribble nor a painstaking schoolboy’s cursive. Pen, or sword, in hand, he remembered who he was. When you play a role every day, it is all too easy to lose your sense of self. When you do the indefensible regularly, it is even easier to lose your sense of what it _is_ for an act to be unacceptable. The unbroken chain of writing was a bond of accountability; it kept him honest.

  
  


“ _I have so little that is my own now. Remove them from me and what do I possess? Nothing.”_

  
  


Saying those words to Thalyssra felt like a lifetime ago.  It seemed recent events had robbed him even of his ability to write down his thoughts. It was not as if he could take up a sword and fight this enemy, either. Lor’themar closed the book with a soft click of arcanetic loops  and stood, ignoring the protest of muscles stiff from hunching over and being held in tension for too long.

  
  


He had never had chance to talk statecraft with Thalyssra. He suspected he could learn a few things from her, who had been an accomplished teacher and notable when Zin’Azshari rode above the waves and the world had a different shape.

  
  


In his mind, they had time, or it had seemed that they had. There would have been more evenings like the first; more poetry, more laughter. He hadn’t really shown her Quel’thalas or taught her how to ride a hawkstrider. She hadn’t corrected his Shalassian accent until it was indistinguishable from the notables who didn’t like his sonnet. Now the time had been pulled away, both by the way they had got in from their love, and now, what could be its end. His string of pearls had been snapped, the silk threads frayed and dangling, the bright beads scattered in all directions. He remembered all the urgent summonses and vital Horde matters that he had prioritised over time with her. He wondered if surrendering to that one moment would be a regret he would carry for the rest of his days.

  
  


He realised he was being watched; the cool, arcane glow in her eyes was familiar and reassuringly undimmed. Thalyssra was awake.

  
  


“Sometimes the muse isn’t there,” she whispered. Her voice was scratchy and worn from the screams it had wrenched from her, but she was still recognisably Thalyssra – his, and her own. Not lovely – her hair lank, her face lined and greyish – but loved all the more for it. In two short paces he was beside her again, all other things forgotten.

  
  


“My lady.” It wasn’t the joking formality they kept up between them sometimes, but true respect. He grazed her knuckles with a kiss. “Are you in pain? How do you feel now?”

  
  


Smiling stretched her bloodless lips. “Better than before. How was _that_ for an omen?”

  
  


If anyone had been muttering darkly about the series of events: the violent thunderstorm, then Thalyssra’s sudden and dramatic turn for the worse  at the feast – they had had the sense to keep it away from Lor’themar’s ears. 

  
  


“Every representative has sent their best wishes, but I’m at fault. I should never have put pressure on you to come.”

  
  


“I wanted to – I enjoyed it. For a while, anyway.” She squeezed his hand. “Hardly your fault.”

  
  


R ubbing his brow, Lor’themar said, “If Stellagosa’s theory has a grain of truth to it, objectively, I am. I’ve wronged you terribly.”  A jolt of viciousness went through him, the frustrated pent-up energy coming out in his words. “ _Damn_ the Nightwell, the Light, the lot of it. I thought our surprise, our accident, whatever you want to call it – would bring us happiness.  Instead it’s brought unrest to Suramar, a knife in the back to my best friend and my Dusk Lily struck down by something I didn’t know was in me. ”

  
  


“No -” she whispered again, the sound scratching against her raw throat, and then, directly to his mind, _Lor’themar, no,_ _you are not getting to give yourself a new adder-bite on my account._ She looked serious, taking hold of his hands for a moment. 

  
  


_Neither of us are at fault._ _We could not have predicted this outcome._ _There is no blame – there is only what is, not what ought to be, or what we should have done and didn’t._ _If this ends up being my final request…_

  
  


“By the _Sunwell_ , Thalyssra. Don’t speak that way,” he cut in, voice breaking. 

  
  


_ I said  **if** .  _ She pressed her lips together.  _ In all the long years of my life, nothing has been able to keep me down for very long.  You didn’t  **do** this to me. We don’t yet wholly know what this is,  although I trust that we will, soon …  and if I recall, it wasn’t just you who got lost in the moment, Lor’themar .  _

  
  


And then, for the first time, there was a third – a presence, felt more than  seen , although Lor’themar would  say for some time afterwards that that was the first time he heard his child laugh. 

  
  


Thalyssra guided his hand to rest on her belly. He had felt the movements before, but this was new.  His eyes widened, enough to feel the tug of scar tissue at his jaw and hairline . He didn’t often feel  _wonder_ any more, and in Thalyssra’s face, the pain-lines and exhaustion lifted, for a moment,  and there was a little more life in her face . Through their arcane communion, she felt it too. 

  
  


_ W hen we rebelled,  _ she  conveyed to him ,  _ I had to learn I didn’t have boundless energy any more. I wanted to run to every ley-station in Suramar when Valtrois had that idea, I wanted to storm the city, to call out Elisande myself, but some days, I didn’t even have the strength to stand, just the hunger.  I felt helpless. My life hanging by a thread, sucking mana-crystals out of the hand of a kind stranger,  taking it on trust there would be more tomorrow . It was humbling.  _

  
  


“You were courageous beyond belief…” Lor’themar stopped himself, struck by a bad resonance in what he had said. The last time he’d used those words he’d had a dying Farstrider in his arms, the lad’s blood darkening the wiry grass of the Ghostlands and oozing between the stitching of Lor’themar’s glove. It was an uncomfortably familiar moment. He remembered that the next words to pass his lips had been a lie. _You will be fine, I've seen worse... we’ll patch you up, you just need to hold on a bit longer. You fought well today._

  
  


He wished he could lie to her, that he knew what was happening, or it was something he could face in a fair fight and defeat.  He also knew in that moment that Thalyssra shared in his memory; her expression softened. 

  
  


_ No. I was afraid so very often. Fear and doubt were my constant companions. But every day, every time I trusted… their voices became less and less insistent. Every time a friend did as I asked, and more – every setback we overcame –  every time the stranger came back  with more crystals, even though they had no obligation to do so \-  I felt less frightened. I don’t feel afraid at all, now.  _

  
  


S he was pressing something into his hand; it was the hourglass, warm with its enchantments, a soft glow emanating from between his fingers. He held it up. 

  
  


_ Get this to Valtrois. This has been a lesson for me; I haven’t trusted enough.  _

  
  


“You don’t have to be afraid of anything,” he said, although his thoughts still caught in the dark, distant past. Fearlessness could come from confidence, from faith – or acceptance of the inevitable. He hoped Thalyssra was speaking about the former. “Rommath and Valtrois will be back soon. I will personally place this into her hands.”

  
  


The young, veiled Forsaken slipped into the room soundlessly  and made a bow of respect to the two Horde leaders in front of her . “It is best you rest, First Arcanist,” she whispered, topping up the cup on Thalyssra’s nightstand.  She measured it out carefully; she had told him previously they were walking a fine line between relieving the mother’s pain and putting the child at risk; this could only be a temporary measure while a solution was found. She put the teapot aside and said  to Lor’themar, “Miss Voss is outside,  Regent Lord, wishing to speak with you . If you like, I will stay with the First Arcanist.”

  
  


“Thank you.” He had no intention of leaving but, on Thalyssra’s nod, held the cup to her lips as waited as she swallowed the bitter tisane. She grimaced at the taste, then her eyes travelled upwards. With the hourglass handed over, she seemed more at ease, or perhaps the herbs in the cup were already taking effect.

  
  


_Go - but you’re in no condition for council_ _business_ _._ She reached up and tugged free a wisp of golden hair.  _Y_ _our_ _braids are coming loose._

  
  


He wiped the residue of the sleeping draught from her lips. “I couldn’t care less.”

  
  


Confused, not included in the conversation, the novice stood at attention. “My Lord Theron?” 

  
  


_ Trust our friends.  If I need you, you’ll hear me call . _

  
  


He leant in close to kiss her brow. There was a tug as she caught a couple of his whiskers between her lips, and a wicked, mischievous grin. 

  
  


_ Your beard bead is askew,  too. _

  
  


Lor’themar smiled in spite of the situation,  although this, at least, he did adjust . There were standards that must be met. “My lady.  _Al diel shala_ . ”

  
  


_ I’m not going anywhere... _

  
  


“We sometimes use it to mean ‘sweet dreams’.” He stood, feeling the wrench of parting, but gave a courtly bow regardless and retreated, leaving the healer blinking in confusion at the half-heard conversation. 

  
  


\---

  
  


“Are they – are they _shooting at_ us?”

  
  


Rommath reined his mount in to the right, dodging the trajectory of a feather-fletched arrow from below. “It would seem so!” 

  
  


“So much for your peace treaty,” came Stellagosa’s voice – deeper, in dragon form, seemingly full of ancient wisdom. Valtrois clung onto her neck as she wheeled in the air, dipping below Rommath to break up the target.

  
  


“To my mind,” Rommath yelled down the wind, “a peace treaty with abstentions is no peace treaty.” He ducked close to his mount’s neck as another arrow sailed overhead. “I could hit the whole lot of them with a fireball from here…”

  
  


“Thalyssra would be very unhappy with that,” Valtrois cautioned, screwing her eyes shut as Stellagosa lurched left. “We’ll be out of range soon. Maybe they have - _reason_ – to be angry with the Horde. Throwing more fire at them would prove their point. And, you might incinerate our target.”

  
  


“Stop digging your claws into my _neck_ ,” rumbled Stella. “I won't let you fall.”

  
  


“Damned hermit, why do some people think we’ve all day to wait for them to be near a portal?” Rommath called back over his shoulder, as they swung in low over the auburn heaths and rosy leafed trees of Meredil. “I will defer to you, Second Arcanist, while we’re on your land,” 

  
  


Valtrois pursed her lips  but didn’t correct him. She was trying out  _Chief Leywalker_ , which put her at the head of a magical school defunct since the loss of the Arcway  and ripe for re-establishing. She was wondering  if that went far enough; it put her on a par with the chief Astromancer and Telemancer, but not pre-eminent. “Master of the Ley Lines?” she thought out loud.

  
  


“You flatter me,” Stella purred, bringing them in low over the bridge that had once joined the abandoned town to Suramar proper. 

  
  


\---

  
  


Lilian Voss waited in the shadows, but stood when Lor’themar emerged. “Regent Lord,” she said, dropping a bow of respect. 

  
  


“We’re equals, there’s no need,” he said, a little more shortly than he meant to. 

  
  


“For now,” she said. “Do you gamble, Regent Lord? The smart money is on you standing as Warchief before the year is out, apparently.”

  
  


“The last thing I need.” Lor’themar felt a tension building in his limbs; the armour was too heavy, the air in here too close, every nerve was frayed, and he was not sure he had an ounce of diplomacy in him any more. Something had to give. “Let’s go outside.” 

He led her to the training grounds  without having any particular plan in mind; it was close enough that he could return quickly on Thalyssra’s call, but far enough that he could get the air and stretch of limbs he desperately needed.

Lilian tilted her head. “A sparring match? I heard you were injured at the hunt, it wouldn’t be fair. I’d have to handicap myself somehow.”

  
  


He shook his head. “I should like that, but not today.”  The two of them arriving at the grounds turned  into an impromptu inspection of the Horde soldiery; even at this late hour,  there were a number of warriors and adventurers taking advantage of the cooler temperatures in the wake of the storm. Young elven archers’ backs immediately straightened and form improved as the Regent Lord cast his good eye over them, while a pair of leather-clad Forsaken lounging in the shade swiftly stubbed out their roll-ups and retreated inside. 

  
  


Lor’themar stepped around the undead woman so he had her on his good side, to better read her face and body language.  “What was it you wanted to discuss? If it’s pulling troops out of the Ghostlands again, I’m waiting for Halduron’s report before I can give you an answer.” 

  
  


“It’s not that.” Lilian looked at the Durotar dust beneath her boots. She paused for a long moment. “Before she was taken ill, Thalyssra… the First Arcanist touched me. Not many of the living would have been willing to do that, and then... After a while, you begin to wonder if you really are anathema to life, the Light, all good things.” She rested her hands on her daggers, then folded her arms, seeming to find the words difficult. “I am… so afraid that I have hurt her, and the child - after she was kind to me.”

  
  


He shook his head. “It’s not you.  It i s a magical affliction, they think,  perhaps a residual problem from the destruction of the Nightwell.” They continued their walk along the proving ground.  Lilian didn’t ask for any more information than that, and Lor’themar didn’t volunteer any . 

  
  


“She is that kind of person; the Nightborne have suffered, so they know suffering in others. I’d hazard a guess that a Forsaken adventurer would receive a warmer welcome in Suramar than in Silvermoon, at least in years gone by.” 

  
  


His voice had a thickness to it; he coughed, tasting dry dust. He hadn’t eaten; back at the infirmary, an uneaten mana bun lay next to some cold tea that Rommath had shoved in front of him.  He had no idea how late it was. 

  
  


Lilian’s shoulders relaxed. “It means a lot, Lor’themar.  I will not take up more of your time, then.”  Uncertainly, she  reached out and  rested a  bony hand on his bracer. “I will keep you informed about my position within the Forsaken, as it was only meant to be temporary… although things change,” she noted,  picking up on the Regent Lord’s rueful grimace. “You… can always talk to me, as a friend, about anything - and that small sliver of me that still hopes and believes in the grace of the Light will be praying for Thalyssra and your child.”

  
  


He reached up to clasp her hand in his own. It was more words than he’d ever known the taciturn Forsaken leader say at any time, and they were the right ones. “Thank you, Lilian.”

  
  


The pain scythed across his head from temple to temple, jarring his vision and causing him to stumble, raising a hand to his brow. Before his eyes, he saw her face, wracked in pain, sweat-drenched, her eyes pleading.

  
  


_ I need you. _

  
  


Lilian had dropped his hand like a hot coal, horror writ on her face. “Regent Lord?”

  
  


“That wasn’t you either,” he managed, recovering, “I must return. Thalyssra needs me, _right now_.”

  
  


Voss nodded sharply. “I know shortcuts. Follow me.”

  
  



	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deputising for Thalyssra, Valtrois must make a decision with far-reaching implications for her people's future, and her best friend's survival.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for a reasonably graphic depiction of childbirth, and canon tree death.
> 
> Rommath's associate may have been a little obscure a reference, so [link](https://wow.gamepedia.com/Priest_Kath%27mar). I get the argument that 'Silvermoon is stuck in BC era' but I don't think Lor'themar's regime is half as nice as his propaganda machine would have us believe.
> 
> The things being implied about the Nightwell here should not be considered canon, although there's a fair amount of cosmological speculation about it. 
> 
> Quel'vala thonos = nobility through tradition.

_Beside a passage about holy energy, he writes, ‘my dusk lily bends more each day toward the sun.’_

_-_ Alliance intelligence, quoted in _Shadows Rising_ , Madeleine Roux

  
  


  
  


  
  


“Ishnu’alah. Welcome to Shal’Aran.”

  
  


“Not what I’d call a welcome.” Rommath’s ever-thin veneer of patience had apparently been left in his saddlebags. “This is Horde territory, Night Elf. If you don’t keep your people in line, they’ll find themselves obliged to leave. Perhaps via portal, from great height.”

  
  


“They are, and are not, my people,” the Valewalker said simply. “There are older concerns in this land than your Horde and your Alliance.”

  
  


Rommath sniffed. “Spare me the obfuscations. You know why we’re here; now, are we going to fight over the Horde asset behind you, or are you going to stand aside, like the wise man you purport to be?”

  
  


Farodin thumbed the haft of his scythe, feeling the gnotty grain of the wood. “The Arcan’dor was a gift,” he explained, “to another. I have always served to keep the gifts of the ancient magi from falling into the wrong hands. To that, I hold.”

  
  


“So you’ll yield up the Arcan’dor to me?” Valtrois stepped forward. The Valewalker’s eyes turned from the Grand Magister to the Nightborne beside him.

  
  


“To you - yes,” he said, with only a brief hesitation. “Although I advise against the First Arcanist’s course of action.”

  
  


Valtrois looked to Rommath, who retained a carefully neutral expression. She adjusted her own to match. “I act on the First Arcanist’s behalf. I will consider your objection.”

  
  


He turned his back on them, raising his face to the tree. The soft ley-light pulsed through its symmetrical branches. At this time of year, the leaves were blood-red, some already littering the floor of Shal’Aran.

  
  


“Thalyssra sees the salvation of her people in the arcane. She finds the rhythm of nature too slow, too unpredictable; too many of her people still need to taste the tart flesh of the arcfruit, and she has drawn them into a wider turmoil, perhaps one that will threaten every last vestige of their elevated self-perception as the _chosen ones_.” The Valewalker shook his head, letting out a soft _tch_ from between his teeth. “So she lets one source of power die and immediately runs back to the arcane as saviour. She has learned nothing.”

  
  


Rommath laid an arm on Valtrois’s arm, as if to say, _let him talk, reveal nothing._

  
  


The Valewalker turned, leaning on his scythe. “In nature, after its first fruiting, the last fruit would be preserved on the branch. The tree would require a year of cultivation and care. The next year, it would then bear no new fruit, but the fruit would swell and yield up a single seed. Thus the cycle is renewed. It is in this balance that the Shal’dorei will thrive and the gift of the ancients may be given again.”

  
  


He shook his head. “We can spare a branch. Your kind must always destroy to see how something works, and I doubt you would believe without seeing it with your eyes.” Before they could stop him, he reached up and snapped one off; it came away cleanly with a harsh crack, like dry bone. It felt like an act of violence. Stellagosa flinched, Valtrois narrowed her eyes. The old Night Elf handled the severed wood without sentimentality, but with a certain dignity.

  
  


“Now we need a subject.”

  
  


It was below, among the roots, where they found one of the Withered skulking. “These are tame,” Valtrois explained. “What do I do?”

  
  


“Re-route the energy, while the branch still lives.” They could see it, a thin, insubstantial thread rising from the leyline into the severed branch. “You will see.”

  
  


Valtrois concentrated for a moment, harnessing the leyline and getting a grip on it. Rommath watched with interest. The Withered clicked his tongue softly, getting distracted by some promising dust at the foot of the tree. As he bent to lap it up, Valtrois spoke the word of command. A juddering flash filled the chamber, and for a moment, the tree flickered. An unseen wind lifted her hair and chilled Rommath’s bare upper arms.

  
  


The Withered coiled in fright, then steadily uncurled, hands clenching and unclenching. He blinked slowly. His skin was mottled, not the deep greyish-purple of before, and there was something changed in his eyes – not intelligence, exactly, but a vestige of a person.

  
  


“Interesting,” Rommath remarked, ever prone to understatement.

  
  


“As you see, the sacrifice of the entire, living Arcan’dor can do far more than consuming its fruit. Unleashing its power would heal those who are not yet whole, and more, mend those who are most deeply twisted by the Nightwell’s energies. Or, as the First Arcanist would prefer, channelled into the Astromancer’s Keystone, you are looking at something which would rival the Well of Eternity – for a while. A true ‘Horde asset’.” In a rare flash of temper, the Valewalker tossed the now-dull dead branch at their feet.

  
  


“What do you know about the Keystone?” Rommath probed.

  
  


“It belonged – and still does – to the Moon Guard. Had they not been caught at unawares, they might have used it to save their keep, to create impenetrable arcane defences, and the Nightborne assault would have been stayed. As it stands, those few that survived the slaughter placed it in their rescuer’s hands in good faith.”

  
  


“So that’s what she was planning,” Valtrois breathed, to a disapproving look from Rommath. “From what she said, I thought it was a weapon.”

  
  


“It is that, too. The Moon Guard were entrusted with its power precisely because they _would not_ use it, except in desperate and legitimate need. It could end your little war with the ‘Alliance’ at a stroke, but of course, in so doing, you have then sacrificed both the renewal of the cycle, and the possibility of deeper healing.” He looked steadily at Valtrois.

  
  


Rommath’s face was very still for a moment, contemplating possibilities. The Valewalker continued. “This is why I say Thalyssra chooses short-sightedly. What when the next war comes? Eventually, all the gifts will be squandered, and we will be custodians of ruins, or buried beneath them.”

  
  


Rommath opened his mouth, paused for a moment, then turned to Valtrois. “What does Suramar choose?”

  
  


Valtrois looked up into the branches, quiet for a moment.

  
  


“ _Quel’vala thonos_ ,” she murmured, reaching to brush one of the hanging vines with her fingertips. The leaves were dry and brittle now, coming away in her hand.

  
  


“I do not believe,” Farodin observed, “that you have come to claim the life of the Arcan’dor for war, have you?”

  
  


\---

  
  


Between the blinding, white-lancing pain that seemed to transcend even the word and become a thing, tangible and ethereal at the same time, there were periods of blessed dark relief. The herbs in the cup were strong; sometimes, the veiled healer was there, frowning at the sluggishness of the little one’s movements, balancing the dose carefully. _When the mother is distressed, so is the child, but too much sedation is bad for both of them,_ she heard her explaining in her voice, dry as tissue paper.

  
  


_The mother_. It was as if a third party was present, someone stripped of their name and powers, carrying only duty. Thalyssra saw herself as if from a distance, holding what formed in her mind from an inert lump to a shape, an elven child. She couldn’t make out the face; everything was indistinct, in the moments she had between pain and dark, sedated sleep.

  
  


“-grettably no, Regent Lord, not yet.”

  
  


“By the Sunwell, where _are_ they? Send out runners, _find_ them.” She perceived Lor’themar’s heavy tread, retreating to the hall for a moment to gather himself (or, as she suspected, to flip over some furniture), then returning. He never left her for more than a moment or two.

  
  


“-glad you’re here,” she managed. Her voice – _the mother’s voice –_ sounded strange, thick, fogged. For some reason, it seemed important to say the words out loud. Over her closed lids she felt the bristle of his beard – the bead gone entirely, funny what you notice when your world has shrunk to a small room and monstrous pain - and the touch of his lips to her brow.

  
  


“Don’t try to speak. Rest,” he said, his own voice dry and gravelled with strain. Then, barked, over his shoulder: “Is there _nothing more_ we can do for her? Is this the best the Horde can offer the heroine of Nazjatar?”

  
  


Blackness chased her in, pushing out Lor’themar and everything else. _She’d fallen down into the dark in Nazjatar too, she remembered._ She dreamed of a different night, though – the one where Elisande had pronounced them saved and they exiled the last priestess of the moon.

  
  


Past the harpist, the table where Vandros was passed out – the ritual had been demanding on the three of them - and onto the ungainly scuffle. Everyone was thin in those days; the priestess, gaunt, hollow-eyed, and the two Duskwatch, as they would later be known, forcing her hands into arcanetic bonds.

  
  


“We need _light,_ ” she pleaded, twisting her body to beseech the revellers even as they dragged her away. “We cannot _live_ like this…”

  
  


_The whispers had been more like roaring water, impossible to block out – she had_ _the way open to reality_ _as long as she could, and nobody had blamed her; they overcame, in the end._ _She was left unharmed and always wondering if it was a weakness of will or something dark, something wrong at the core of her, all the worse for being of her own making._

  
  


“...thought I was born to lead. I wanted this – I’m not ready.” Her voice distorted with arcane echoes, the static buzz of her skin; she’d just arrived via portal. Uncharacteristic affection from Valtrois; a squeeze of the hand. “I _hope_ this is the right decision.”

  
  


Lor’themar and the Forsaken healer, exchanging words that she couldn’t make out. Her golden lover putting his face in his hands, pacing.

  
  


_Thalyssra._

  
  


Someone was calling her name; her attention was drawn away, back down int othe dark. She was never short of an offer of a warm bed and some pleasurable company, back then. She considered the extended hand, the silken palanquin, but waved him off. Even her formidable stamina was near its end after the ritual, the meal in front of her valiantly picked-at, given the conditions in the city, but there was something else, a matter of loyalty.

  
  


Elisande remained, gazing blankly ahead, apparently lacking the wherewithal to move. Thalyssra slid into the empty seat beside her. “We’ve made an appearance,” she whispered. “Shall we?”

  
  


“What did they call it?” Elisande’s voice betrayed a deep weariness; Thalyssra wasn’t surprised the Grand Magistrix had missed the poets’ contest entirely.

  
  


“It was close, but simplicity won out. Reryn’s name stands: _the Nightwell_.”

  
  


The Grand Magistrix merely nodded, her eyes drooping, but the suggestion accepted. It was fitting; with Thalyssra’s shield and Elisande’s font of power, they had successfully banished every last scintilla of outside light from their city. The palanquin arrived discreetly and absorbed both of them. They passed the journey to the Nighthold in companionable silence, and void-like darkness.

  
  


Thalyssra’s presence was unexpected but accepted; she stayed the imperial handmaidens with a glance. The servants themselves invisible as she lifted Elisande’s golden headpiece free and set it on its stand. Elisande seemed to subside physically without its weight; Thalyssra had to practically hold the Grand Magistrix’s head up as she gently wiped her face clean and removed her golden nail protectors and ear cuffs, replacing each carefully on its stand. Elisande didn’t thank, so what she was murmuring under her breath was a mystery to Thalyssra.

  
  


A couple of steps later and they were in bed together, a rarity these days; it had been a long time since they reached for comfort in each other in the early days of their rebellion. Elisande, the smaller, fitted neatly in the hollow of Thalyssra’s body, her buttocks pressed into Thalyssra’s lap. Her hair stuck up oddly after being compressed under her golden crown, soft spikes pressing into Thalyssra’s chin.

  
  


“Why are you crying?” Thalyssra whispered, because she was – shoulders trembling, hot, wet tears spilling into Thalyssra’s hand that cupped her cheek. It was completely dark; every last flicker of light had been extinguished. Elisande didn’t respond.

  
  


She didn’t recall slipping into sleep. Perhaps exhaustion overcame both of them at the same time. They never spoke of the making of the Nightwell again.

  
  


“ _Thalyssra._ ”

  
  


The spiralling dark came again, and this time, there was that tiny, scintillating flash, the movement of the _other_ – part of her, and not.

  
  


The grip on her hand was firm, strong, warm; the red fluttered to white, and her eyes began to focus on the vague shapes hovering over her. The words were muted, but she recognised the cadence of urgent conversation.

  
  


“Hold her -”

  
  


It wasn’t Lor’themar, nor was it the Forsaken healer; the hands lifting her up were gnarled like wood, yet gentle. Moss and leather, and something sharp-sweet, over-ripe. Her pain-seared nerves picked up the arcane hum of a nearby portal. The air was different, cool, damp.

  
  


“-hope you know what you’re doing.”

  
  


\---

  
  


The morning sun came through bright and clear; the storm had cleared away the ominous heaviness in the air, and the Horde capital felt ready for new life.

  
  


“Not too much longer, now,” was the opinion of the healer. Her people didn’t need to sleep, not really. The contrast with the two elves in her care couldn’t be starker. The Regent Lord was visibly sagging, two mugs of the strongest stimulant going having little effect, but the crushing tension of the past twelve hours was lifted, and sleep was out of the question.

  
  


Propped against him, curled, the First Arcanist was resting between the increasingly protracted tightenings that began low in her belly and spread out through her abdomen, back and legs. “Less of the tea you can manage on, the better,” she continued, although there’s more on the brew if you need it.”

  
  


There was something out of place about the brisk, friendly demeanour of the Forsaken healer; Lor’themar had them down as poison-mongers, alchemists and blightsmiths, not midwives. He had asked about it, while Thalyssra dozed between contractions.

  
  


“Miss Voss sent me, because I’m the best,” she’d said. It hadn’t sounded arrogant; it was just true. Unprompted, she added, “I had four of my own. I know what I’m doing.”

  
  


One thing the Blood Elves and Forsaken had in common was that it was not a done thing to ask about someone’s family. Lor’themar refrained. He even didn’t object when she asked Thalyssra, in his full hearing, if she wanted a man around while she was labouring. She apparently didn’t mind and he was allowed to stay.

  
  


“Yes, my lady. Good.”

  
  


Her brow knit as she drew in breath between her teeth, coming over the peak, then relaxing. “It’s relative,” she said. “Compared to _before_ , it’s nothing – and none of it was as bad as withering. I think I’ll manage. One at a time.”

  
  


“Are you sure you haven’t done this before?” He helped her shift her body to find comfort where it could be had, then drawing his arms around her again, savouring her closeness, her _wholeness_ , the near-disaster he was on the edge of comprehending that they had just survived.

  
  


The healer smiled a stitched smile and left them to it.

  
  


\---

  
  


“Citizens of Suramar…”

  
  


“ _People_ is better. More personal,” Rommath suggested.

  
  


Valtrois let out a shaky breath. “People of Suramar, I stand before you…”

  
  


“Slow down. You sound nervous.”

  
  


“I am fine.” Valtrois’s hands knit into a knot, trying to keep still while Stellagosa fixed the high collar of her robe around her beck. “How are things out there?”

  
  


Victoire wasn’t sure how to salute the acting First Arcanist; there was no protocol for that in any of the volumes she’d read. She settled for a quick nod. “Calm. Ish.”

  
  


Rommath turned to the Nightborne captain. “Don’t worry about that. I’ve brought along an old associate of the magisters of Silvermoon who’s very good at calming troubled minds.”

  
  


Valtrois hadn’t noticed the Blood Elf priest before now; he was inobtrusively tucked into a corner, eating a halved shadefruit and watching with a detached kind of interest, a few strands of pale auburn hair falling loose from the cowl of his robe.

  
  


The arcanist exhaled, shaking out the tension in her hands and reaching for Stella’s scroll that contained her speech. “Let’s get this over with, shall we?”

  
  


\---

  
  


“ _Is it going to be much longer?”_

  
  


“ _Not much longer, my lady. You’re doing very well. Do you need more of the tea?”_

  
  


“ _I don’t – think so.” A hard exhale. “Yet.”_

  
  


_Lor’themar rubbed his brow. “How do you know?” Aside, with the undead woman who apparently knew all about bringing new life into the world._

  
  


“ _When they ask ‘how much longer”, i_ _t means it won’t be_ _much longer_ _, Regent Lord. Hold these_ _towels_ _for me.”_

  
  


_\---_

  
  


“People of Suramar, I stand before you on behalf of your First Arcanist – but more than that, as one who has walked the same path as you. I know what it is to hunger, to be alone in the dark…”

  
  


Victoire, standing poised, ready to move at a moment’s notice. A murmur ran through the crowd; Shal’dorei civilians, dock workers, tavern keepers, nobles, clutching their letters of entitlement emblazoned with the stylised image of the Arcan’dor and jostling for a better view.

  
  


Ly’leth Lunastre, flanked at an inobtrusive distance by two Duskwatch, dressed in white mourning and staring at the acting First Arcanist with unalloyed hatred.

  
  


Stellagosa, at Valtrois’s right hand, biting her lip. Valtrois imagined her transforming and devouring the first heckler. That gave her the confidence to continue.

  
  


\---

  
  


“ _You’re doing magnificently. My brave dusk lily.”_

  
  


“ _Could you –_ _stop. Don’t patronise me_ _._ _Don’t touch me!_ _After what I endured, this is nothing.._ _.”_

  
  


_L_ _or’themar held his hands up. “_ _I’ll go outside?”_

  
  


_Her hands, moist, swollen, gripped his. “No -”_

  
  


_\---_

  
  


“… I know what it is to be afraid. I know what it is to face impossible odds, and difficult choices.” Valtrois felt a rumble of disapproval in the crowd and tried to moderate her tone, which she suspected was veering high. Her chest felt tight, she strove to retain control.

  
  


“Such is the fate of our people, but I do not think we have been given anything beyond our ability to manage. The Arcan’dor has served us well, and now it is time to move onto the next phase of our journey. No more fruit can be harvested, but-”

  
  


“We waited our turn for a taste of the fruit, and, what? You’re snatching it away now?”

  
  


“You’re going to leave us to wither in the _streets_? I trusted the Dusk Lily, how can she betray us...”

  
  


The noise rose from a dissatisfied murmur to a roar; a thousand voices, a significant proportion – to Valtrois’ mind, contemplating violence. Teleportation was an option; her fingertips twitched, seeking the reassuring arcane field that would get her clear. She _felt_ Victoire tense, ready to push her to safety – but she knew it wouldn’t be true safety, not if she failed Thalyssra now.

  
  


“That is why I am _delighted_ to tell you there is another way. It has already been put in motion. Tonight, we gather at Meredil. Everyone will be made whole, not one of you will be left behind. Suramar will not endure a winter of hunger, not ever again. This is the message the First Arcanist wishes me to share with you.”

  
  


“Lies!” It was one of the old magisters who rose, banging his staff. “The First Arcanist seeks to purge her enemies, not nourish them! She has been corrupted by outsiders.”

  
  


It was Ly’leth that stood up, apparently in a passion of fury, but her expression suddenly stilled, and her tone was calm, but her voice carried.

  
  


“The First Arcanist gains nothing by starving her own. She would not have done what she did if she did not believe in Suramar, and Suramar is nothing without her people. I say we trust Thalyssra.”

  
  


Ly’leth sat down abruptly, blinking. At the edge of the crowd, the amber-haired Blood Elf moved between the Nightborne, making polite apologies.

  
  


“She has not steered us wrong yet,” put in Oculeth. “There are complex matters of the arcane at stake, but ultimately, the First Arcanist is a mother, or near-enough one. The interests of her people are also the interests of her child. She will make the right choices.”

  
  


“You can hold me to my word,” Valtrois promised. “We do not depend on magic any more. We use it to achieve greatness and claim our true place in this world.”

  
  


\---

  
  


“Keep breathing.”

  
  


“Is it – is that - ”

  
  


“Yes, my lady. Deep breath now.”

  
  


Lor’themar braced, ready for his hand to be crushed or pierced with his lover’s claws, but the tension slackened as she watched in the mirror; at first, little to see, but her body was responding to her breath and the force of her pushing. Gradually, the folds sliding back like an opening seed-pod, and there, tear-drop-like, glistening, their son.

  
  


“There, light breaths, almost done-”

  
  


He thought she had been so strong, barely making a sound, but now she did cry out for the first time - a high, surprised shout, her body parting, a rush of motion, and -

  
  


“Your son, my lady.”

  
  


It wasn’t something you could put in a poem; blood, sweat, the gush of fluids, the greasy feel of the child’s skin at first (that’s what the towels were for, he realised). The gut-punch terror as Lor’themar saw the child was blue-tinged all over – and then remembered, finding his rational faculties, his son was half-Nightborne. Gurgles. Kicks. The child breathed and cried.

  
  


Thalyssra, reaching clumsily for him, lifting him to her breast. The two of them were still joined by the cord. She was making a kind of sobbing, hiccuping laugh; tears mingled with sweat on her cheeks. He had both of them in his arms. Tiny feet and a tiny face, screwed up. Eyes – not fel-green like his own; beautiful, inquisitive. Fingers. Ten of them, thank the Light.

  
  


Thalyssra was speaking in Shalassian that he couldn’t process. He had his mouth pressed to her damp hair, his hand supporting their newborn’s rump, and his mind overwhelmed. Prayers to the Light and thanks to the healer, to Lilian for sending her, to the fates that smiled on them.

  
  


A sense that, perhaps, everything might be all right.

  
  



	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which loose ends are tied up. Mostly. Warning for diplomacy and menstruation, neither particularly graphic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Winter Veil, friends and readers. Appreciate your kind comments and kudos. Been a pleasure to write this one!

  
  


The note read simply: _Your discretion. -L.T._

  
  


Halduron Brightwing tucked  it into his personal file,  alongside the others . He paused, looked behind him, checked his knives were loose in their sheaths, then turned  his full attention to the map spread out over the Regent Lord’s desk. 

  
  


The Ghostlands  lay before him . The cartographer had captured the  essence of the place well, in a muted palette of greys, inky blues and mournful sickly greens. If Halduron had been in a mood for dwelling on the past,  the map provided ample material .  Place names –  _Andilien Estate, Windrunner Spire -_ recalled promotions, celebrations,  friends . Mountains – stylised as quill-tip undulations – recalled arduous climbs,  hard-fought retreats and advances . The Dead Scar, saturated in the deepest grey in the cartographer’s inkbox,  brought to mind the most desperate few weeks of his life,  every yard of it resisted and paid for,  futilely, in Elven blood. 

  
  


Today, he had his ranger-general’s hat on and was focused on numbers, positions, elevations, threats.  Present realities, not past  pain . Lor’themar had been persuaded to take some genuine, uninterruptable leave of absence, and the largest troop movement in Quel’Thalas since the Third War  was now not only his to execute  on behalf of the Regent Lord , but also his to agree and order  _as_ the Regent Lord. 

  
  


He frowned at the map. Seeing it on paper was one thing but the reality was always different. This report said three hundred Forsaken troops were stationed at Tranquilien, which should be plenty, but Dame Auriferous’s increasingly resigned communications always complained of short resource, as well as disciplinary issues and tensions between the Sin’dorei and Forsaken forces. Auriferous was competent and dealt with issues in the field as far as possible, but Halduron could recall some situation a while ago with one of her advisors raising a complaint of harassment, and then there was the former Lt. Tomathren’s court-martial for operational misconduct, which he’d had to personally oversee. That had given him no pleasure at all. The Ghostlands disproportionately strained people’s nerves, and he preferred to rotate out his Farstriders where possible, although operational realities didn’t always permit it. 

  
  


He also had the  letter from Lilian Voss.  It was more of a military  dispatch than a diplomatic  missive , written in hasty block capitals  and informally signed .  Voss  was a soldier first and foremost  and didn’t mince her words, which he appreciated , and  more than that,  her request was reasonable .  The Undercity had loyally provided troops to shore up the Blood Elf reconstruction project for half a decade. It was never intended to be a permanent arrangement,  and now, given the turmoil of the Forsaken, under interim leadership and with nowhere to call home, Lilian wanted to pull her people out of the Ghostlands. 

  
  


The only problem was that left a three hundred man gap in the defences. The Scourge were leaderless, but tireless, inclined to haunt, and malicious.  New recruits expressed surprise when an area they’d cleared, a few weeks later, was infested again. They soon learned, and developed eyes in the backs of their heads, or they didn’t last long. Even without an active war in the region, every now and then, he found he was signing off on a dead Farstrider’s service record – misadventure, ambush, disease – and communications were still taking too long to reach Silvermoon. 

  
  


Halduron bundled the map into a loose scroll, tucking the papers into his satchel. He had decided not to decide, at least not right now. He would go to Tranquilien, get a feel for the situation, and lead from the front. Taking in a deep breath, he felt better already for it; the healing wound in his back ceased to ache, and he could already smell the air – sea breeze, old charred wood, and a whiff of Scourge, to keep the blood up.

  
  


_Rommath’s turn,_ he thought.  _Between the three of us, perhaps we_ _have all the relevant features of a King_ _._

  
  


\---

  
  


“We call this the Living Wood.”

  
  


The spell that cloaked Eversong in the  image of eternal spring did nothing for the temperatures; both of their breath fogged in the cold as they laughed; she slipped, laughed, and he caught her with a steady hand about her waist,  shouldering his bow as he kept balance for the two of them. 

  
  


Their noise had attracted the attention of the tree-folk; shuffling through the dry winter grass, a couple of them made their presence known, shaking their depleted canopies at the intruders. The Nightborne  woman’s  mouth was open. 

  
  


“Can they _talk_?”

  
  


“You should try one of them.” He was grinning, loving her surprise. “Ask if it you can bring it home and decorate it for Winter Veil.”

  
  


The marksmen kept the two of them in sights until they disappeared over the brow of the hill, down into the enchanted groves where the green keepers still rambled.  An off-duty city guard giving a fascinated Shal’dorei tourist a demonstration of the beauty of Quel’Thalas was not a rare sight these days. One of the m made a crude comment under his breath;  _she’s about to see some ‘living wood’ for sure_ . Above his cold-weather gaiter, a superior raised an eyebrow, an unspoken reminder of the need for silence.  Inobtrusive, in green, inured to the  chill in the air , they returned their attention to their charges.  An unseen border was being protected, and if anyone inadvertently stepped over it, they would be politely, but firmly sent on their way  with no explanation. 

  
  


The lodge  they guarded  was ancient,  built by the High Elves as a spot to hunt and fish, unbothered by the concerns of the city .  The royal household of King Anasterian had tended to favour Quel’lithien on the other side of what was the Eversong Forest, but the more modest  retreat on the north bank of the Elrendar had the advantage of being closer . Like everything else this close to the Dead Scar, it had been ransacked and abandoned long ago, but the old structure held firm, and with a little attention, it was made ready  for use as a dwelling  again. Nestled in the cleft of a triad of hills, it had met all Halduron’s requirements: secluded, defensible, all but unknown  and unlikely to be investigated as long as they decided to remain there .  It met Thalyssra’s requirements; comfortable, abundant wood for the fire,  a designated study, forest views. Lor’themar  had no requirements for their getaway. He  didn’t care  as long as it was  _away_ . 

  
  


It was here that the Regent Lord of Quel’Thalas and the First Arcanist of Suramar – and the Boy, as he’d come to be known - were passing their time. Right now, they were walking through the woods together. With a grunt of effort and a scribe’s stiffness in his lower back, Lor’themar bent to grab a hunk of deadfall and tossed it into his wicker basket. It was, Thalyssra had noted laughingly, all a bit of an affectation. They could have had people do everything for them, but there was something pleasurable in the simple, honest work – and, given who they were, even this break would be a state operation. They would need to be protected; a detail of Farstriders patrolled a perimeter, magi laid wards. The midwife, _Kate,_ – in both their eyes, a hero of the Horde – was somewhere between a honoured guest and senior retainer, keeping a eye on mother and child, and to see that mother and father had a little time to themselves that wasn’t taken up with feeding, bathing and changing the Boy. 

  
  


Lor’themar went ahead, hair in plain braids, wearing some old things he’d kept in a chest in Silvermoon, despite the best efforts of his advisors to have him dress as befit his station. He was in leather leggings, butter-soft through long use and many times repaired, and a heavy rough-spun woolen wrap over all that kept his arms free for the task at hand. 

  
  


Thalyssra, for her part, tr ailed behind, the Boy strapped to her chest, an indigo silk robe imbued with a warmth spell cradling both of them.  She was teaching him the Shalassian names for everything they saw. Although he was some seasons off beginning to speak, she was certain his large, watchful eyes were taking in everything she showed him. Lor’themar was getting ahead, again. “ Papa was a Farstrider, once, ” she  explained , and the Boy let out a little noise in response, fussing with the warm scarf she’d tucked about his neck. “He certainly walks like one.”

  
  


Across the river, the white, sickly trees of the Ghostlands reared up. Most were dead; those that lived were denuded of their foliage at this time of year. Fingers of mist crept up from the Elrendar and into the hushed forest. Lor’themar stopped for a time to look and think.

  
  


There would always be that jarring flash of regret for what had been done to his country, and how, years later, it was barely beginning to heal, but by now that was an old wound, well scabbed over.

  
  


What was actually happening was that his mind  half  was back in a bureau in Silvermoon. He’d put the Tranquilien deployments in Halduron’s hands, although if he knew the man he’d have gone there to deal with it in person, leaving Rommath in charge – which was fine, the Grand Magister was a seasoned diplomat and politician, he just dreaded to think what characteristic bit of slightly-overstepping ruthlessness  Rommath might have enacted in his name, when they got back. 

  
  


_When they got back_ . He wasn’t sure what that meant. Thalyssra to Suramar with the Boy (who they needed to sit down and give a damn name to,  and decide in which language, to boot ) and he to Silvermoon. Back to snatched meetings, sojourns cut short by summons. The fourteen - now thirte en -  days ahead of them felt  too precious to squander, moments to savour, and also, in a way, an ending.  The cold air stung his nose and the back of his throat, and he felt water come to the corners of his eyes. 

  
  


“Lor’themar?” 

  
  


Thalyssra had caught him up and was in front of him now. She tossed a dry twig into the basket of firewood  with a little grin, then wound  her fingers around his. “ You were miles away –  and miles ahead!”

  
  


He cleared his throat, blinking a couple of times.  “I must watch that. I forget I’ve shoes on.” 

  
  


It was hard not to pick up on the distraction in his voice, and Boy was beginning to fuss again; the cold was penetrating, and she thought they’d enough firewood. “ I think we’re beginning to lose the light.  Shall we  return ?”

  
  


“As my lady commands.” 

  
  


In the gathering dark, the Farstrider guards rubbed chilled hands, tested bowstrings, and kept watch. 

  
  


\---

  
  


“You do not _actually_ faint at the sight of blood,” came Valtrois’ voice around the corner. “Pull yourself together. You’re a _dragon_.”

  
  


No response, apart from a gentle  thump as Stellagosa sat down heavily on the foot of the bed. She put her head down for a moment.

  
  


Valtrois, naked, ducked back out of the bathroom, and moved over to her lover quickly, concerned. “Are you ill? Talk to me.”

  
  


A bit of colour was coming back to Stella gosa ’s cheeks, either her dizzy spell receding or pure embarrassment. “I…  I thought you were  _dying._ ”

  
  


“Should I get somebody?” Valtrois settled for giving Stella’s upper arms a brisk rub, to try and shake some mana or circulation around her. “I am fine; I’m not hurt in any way. It’s normal. Irritating, but a sign of returning good health… and that my ritual with the Arcan’dor went according to plan.”

  
  


“Give me a moment.” Stella remained where she was, golden head tilted forward, then slowly drew back to face Valtrois, who was a mixture of concern, confusion, and standing awkwardly, holding a hand towel between her legs. 

  
  


Stella managed a wan smile. 

  
  


“I am truly glad for you. Now I am going to have to fly to the most remote mountain eyrie and hide there forever. Please, tell _no-one_.”

  
  


“Certainly, you will not. The Archmage does not speak of her private business. Besides, I would have you at my side.” Valtrois threw her shoulders back, the imperious tilt to her chin exaggerated but the intent quite in earnest. “In truth, I’m rather glad you have a weakness. I was beginning to think I could never measure up to you in anything. You can see the raw leyline beneath the earth but the sight of a little elven blood nearly makes you fall over.”

  
  


Stella gosa kissed the corner of Valtrois’ smirking mouth. “Go and get dressed,” she commanded , letting her voice slide a little deep and draconic. Her lover might be the Archmage and acting leader of the Nightborne, but being made fun of was too much . “ The Sin’dorei delegation are waiting.”

  
  


“Keep them waiting a bit longer. They want something from us.” Valtrois pulled Stella into a full kiss, as if to breathe some life back into her. It was a little wrestle for dominance; Stella the stronger but Valtrois the taller. It ended when Stella managed to squirm a foot and poke Valtrois below the navel. 

  
  


“And you mean to go into negotiations leaking vital essence? With the Grand Magister of Silvermoon?”

  
  


Valtrois shrugged. The confidence was no longer forced. “Anything  he  can do, I can do bleeding.”

  
  


\---

  
  


Rommath swept low into a deep  b ow. “Archmage Valtrois, Advisor Stellagosa.”

  
  


“Grand Magister.” Valtrois’s smile was full and warm, her arms outstretched for a friendly embrace. Rommath was in his red and gold finery, suitable for a state visit. His high collar concealed the line of his mouth from view, as well as making him look taller, more intimidating, setting off the hard lines of his slim frame. He had to stoop slightly to accept her embrace; he topped Valtrois by a couple of inches, but the Nightborne arcanist was on her home turf today; he was her guest, come to ask a favour, and she would enjoy her first real negotiation as the acting ruler of Suramar. “Let’s walk and talk.”

  
  


The palace garden had taken on a distinctly more practical style since Thalyssra’s ascent to power; beans trailed up stalks, young fruit trees were staked in rows. Mottled  Wi thered tilled the soil, under the watchful eye of the botanists.

  
  


“They can do all kinds of things, now,” she explained, to Rommath’s approving nod. “Take a basket of our first harvest, before you leave.”

  
  


“I’ve always been fond of fruit, as is the Regent Lord.” He glanced around, eyes analytical, taking in not just the fruit but the condition of the place, the passers by, the number of armed Duskwatch on patrol. His voice was unctuous, even friendly. “It gives me such pleasure to see Suramar blossom.”

  
  


“When Suramar skins a knee, Silvermoon bleeds,” Valtrois recalled. That made Rommath start, just for a moment, although he quickly recovered. It had been some time since he had presumed to lecture her on statecraft. Clearly, at least as far as Valtrois was concerned, things had moved on since then. 

  
  


“Indeed. But I’m glad for your own sake, too. Shall we get onto business?”

  
  


They got onto business. Rommath wanted four hundred men-at-arms and a hundred mages to assist  Sin’dorei forces in the  Ghostlands. He made it sound appealing; chances for ambitious young  spellcasters to  investigate and ultimately reverse a deep magical taint, opportunities for the more martially-inclined to cut their teeth in battle and win honour  and renown  in Quel’Thalas,  as well as getting to grips with the culture of the Horde and their long-sundered Elven cousins.

  
  


“A worthy cause, certainly,” said Valtrois. Stellagosa whispered something in her ear, and she continued. “Although... I am interested in why you need so many more Shal’dorei than you required of the Forsaken, who we are to relieve. Do you think a Nightborne soldier fights like three fifths of an undead one? Or perhaps you anticipate heavy losses?”

  
  


Rommath frowned. “Not at all, Archmage. You’re certainly well-informed, although the arrangement we had with Sylvanas, and then Lilian, was of... quite a different nature.”

  
  


“Indeed – and I’m not Sylvanas. Of course, I have my own priorities. Have you seen the mess the Legion left? Clearing up Felsoul Hold is years of work, after we’ve destroyed the resmaining demons in the area – and, of course, we’re still recovering from a costly civil war ourselves. We simply can’t spare five hundred troops.”

  
  


“Naturally you have domestic concerns, but you _are_ part of the Horde – a recently-entered part at that - and that comes with certain obligations.” 

  
  


“Of course. Nonetheless, the defence of Suramar is my first priority. I am not giving you what you are asking of me, even if you ask more than once.”

  
  


Rommath stopped abruptly. 

  
  


“Forgive me – Valtrois. I have to say, I anticipated your immediate acquiescence. I wasn’t quite expecting you to play _hardball_ with me over this.” The phrase he actually used was a Thalassian sports metaphor, calculated to throw her off-balance; she didn’t seem the outdoorsy type. But the dragon was whispering in her ear again. “Especially since you elected to give the Astromancer’s Keystone back to the surviving Moon Guard, for them to put in a locked box somewhere, no doubt. The Horde war machine needs _fuel_ , otherwise our holdings – particularly in the Eastern Kingdoms – may well not last the winter.”

  
  


“Playing hardball, Grand Magister? I wouldn’t consider doing that, especially with you.” Valtrois smiled, consulting her advisor for a moment. “We understand our obligations well - when Silvermoon calls, Suramar answers. We can offer you two hundred Withered, a company of trained troops, and... twenty-five battlemages.”

  
  


Rommath’s frown deepened. Valtrois had also recommenced the walk, so he was obliged to keep up. “ How am I to explain to my forward commander at Tranquilien why two-thirds of her  resource are barely-sentient walking corpses?”

  
  


“She managed before,” put in Stellagosa, earning a hard stare from Rommath. 

  
  


“Give me a hundred and fifty _good_ soldiers, a captain you trust, fifty mages – and I’ll take the Withered. Four hundred head total.” With distaste. “Send handlers, and if any of them harm my Sin’dorei, there will be consequences.”

  
  


“Done.” Valtrois beamed. “It is an absolute pleasure to support our valued Horde allies in peace and war. Will you stay for tea?”

  
  


“I need to get back to Silvermoon.” Rommath bowed. “Archmage.”

  
  


The title had actually been Rommath’s idea,  which, as far as he was concerned, was the worst part of it . An explicit connection to the world of the magi beyond Suramar, a title earned through deeds – and the transmutation of the Arcan’dor certainly qualified. The unspoken part was, of course, it would piss off the Kirin Tor beyond belief. 

  
  


“Grand Magister.” Valtrois inclined her head. “We’ll be in touch about the deployment. _Aran-arcana._ ”

  
  


R ommath ran into Oculeth on his way back to the diplomatic portal, although he was of a mind to just teleport himself back to his private quarters in Sunfury Spire. He greeted the ageing telemancer. “You seem to be doing everything within your power to avoid a political role – a shame,” he observed, to which Oculeth cheerfully nodded. 

  
  


“I certainly am! Safe travels, Grand Magister.”

  
  


_\---_

  
  


Flames danced over the bone-dry wood; it was simple enough to get a fire going, but Lor’themar knew it was the height of rudeness not to let the attendant mage light the spark.  She acquiesced with a smile, a ripple of flame dancing over her knuckles .  Their eyes met.  It was a moment. Both tucked it into their collection of moments, to be savoured when the good times were gone. 

  
  


Soon the hearth blazed to life. Shadows of past hunting parties danced across the walls, in the faded tapestries they had hung there. Everything in Quel’Thalas  was haunted; the Ghostlands didn’t stop at the river. Thalyssra looked out of the window into the deepening gloom and thought the mist had seep ed up the bank, drifting in ragged clouds into the cleft in the hills where their lodge nestled down, seeking to wrap it in a cloak of white. 

  
  


She shivered, moving closer to the fire.  This place was old in a way that the Broken Isles weren’t, which was odd as the painful history here was so recent. She edged closer to where Lor’themar was – once again, lost in his thoughts, chewing the soul patch on his lower lip as he gazed into the flames. He did look up, eventually, when the Boy made the little contented happy sounds after his feed, and Thalyssra lifted him up, rubbing his back to make sure he hadn’t taken in any bubbles  of air that woul d trouble him later.

  
  


He was, they both recognised, an incredibly  _good_ baby. Even by  Kate’s standards – he slept, he giggled, he cried but didn’t scream incessantly or throw up his milk at inopportune moments, onto his father’s journal or his mother’s spellbook. Him being such a sweetly contented child, they were assured, more than made up for the, frankly, disastrous omens surrounding his birth. 

  
  


“What’s the matter?” she asked, nudging a cup of warmed wine into his hand. The Boy slept and the fire was stacked high now, filling the room with brightness and a thirsty, splintering heat. 

  
  


“I’m squandering the present to dwell on future horrors that will probably never come to be.” Lor’themar’s tone was light but it betrayed underlying strain. He folded his fingers around the cup and looked up at her. She was struck by the honesty, something in his face, the handsome symmetry marred by the awful scar, the dead unseeing eye. Of course, he couldn’t forget the near-mortal wound done to his homeland. He would be reminded of it every time he saw his face. From time to time he’d get up, go check on the Boy (that, and only that, seemed to give him a moment of peace), and then return to his distracted staring and thinking. 

  
  


She wasn’t having this  for the next thirteen days .  Thalyssra slammed her cup down and in a step was in front of him.  The  lone  green eye widened.  _Good_ . She  shoved her lips to his, urgently, desperately,  pushing her  swollen breasts into his chest,  ignoring the sensitivity, wanting to feel the heat of his body. She climbed up,  wrapping her legs around him . There was a response, of course there was.  If anything, he’d told her, he desired her more now. Straddling  her Sin’dorei lover , she  squirmed against him, feeling for the hardness pressing through  his leather leggings and  into her  thigh .

  
  


“-’lyssra – not that I don’t _want_ to, but -”

  
  


The midwife had said it was best to wait a few weeks more before resuming loving of the body. She remembered that too, belatedly, although she wasn’t sure if his resistance was mainly out of concern for her healing, or how Kate had mentioned it was easy to conceive  _again_ if you indulged in quick succession.  He knew the awful ordeal was over and the ritual of the Arcan’dor would prevent a repeat, but he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to shake off how it felt to see Thalyssra in such pain – to be so helpless  in the face of it . 

  
  


“I’m bringing you into the moment – one way or another.” Breathless, and willing to improvise, she went for the lacings on his leggings and yanked them down, pulling him free and taking him in her mouth. 

  
  


“Nnh.” It worked; even articulate Lor’themar was robbed of both his ability to ruminate and his power of speech. She wasn’t waiting around, lips warm with the wine, mouth ready to swallow him. He nearly knocked their goblets over when, a few minutes later, his hips tensed, his body arced and he came, his arm flailing out jerkily as his head went back and an inarticulate noise was forced from him. 

  
  


There was a moment of quiet togetherness; him head tilted back, gasping, over-sensitive and sticky; her, licking her lips, savouring not so much the taste but the closeness, the beauty of him, the old oiled leather smell mingling with his clean personal fragrance that clung to his skin, the burnished  golden crop of hair that she’d buried her face in as she sucked him to his root. 

  
  


Another moment, strung on the chain and held.

  
  


Methodically, she climbed back up, resting her hands on hips, belly, chest, until she was above him. For a post-coital man he looked remarkably focused – in the moment indeed.

  
  


“That was - ” well, words weren’t needed, were they. 

  
  


“Let’s start at the beginning.” Drawing her wine-cup to her lips, swirling the still-warm fragrant liquid around in her mouth.

  
  


“We cannot continue as we have been. Moment to moment, impulse to feeling. There are two kingdoms at stake. There’s the Boy.”

  
  


“No.” He seemed surprised that she agreed. Drawing a sheepskin over them she snuggled up at his side and sipped her spiced wine. “We will need to make some decisions about the future. I also agree we can’t continue as we are.” She slid her hand under his shirt, exploring the firm muscle, the seamy lines of scar tissue, the soft golden hair just below his navel. It was neither sensual nor ticklish, more a gesture of comfort sought and given.

  
  


“Tell me, Lor’themar. How long has it been since you had some time to yourself, where you _couldn’t_ be called upon? Actually think about it and give me a number in days, weeks or years.”

  
  


Lor’themar thought about it, and eventually came out with, “ We’ve had our moments. There have been brief periods of peace… but  I haven’t put down my responsibilities as Regent Lord since we buried Kael’thas.”

  
  


“I asked for a number.”

  
  


“That’s seven years, give or take a few months.” The reality of the situation seemed to settle into the lines in his face, the ache in his lower back. “Seven years. I am tired to my very bones. And they want me to stand forward as Warchief, when the Council inevitably bickers and factions itself to pieces.” He inclined his head to her, inhaling the lilac perfume of her hair. 

  
  


“I wouldn’t last the year. The last few warchiefs haven’t.”

  
  


“I didn’t go through everything I have to lose you like that,” she said softly. There was a crackle in the hearth as one of the knottier logs split. They both felt the warmth on their faces. “I didn’t risk my life giving birth to your child to have him grow up without a father. That is off the table in this negotiation.” 

  
  


“I have decided,” he said, after a moment, “I’m going to _delegate_. Trust their decisions, as you have Valtrois. Rommath, Halduron, Liadrin – I’d bleed for any of them, I trust them with my life, so why not my city, my Sin’dorei? Any of them can rule, absolutely, without referring matters back to me… and I need people to do the unimportant things, too.”

  
  


“The Shal’dorei can certainly lend a hand if you want to establish a bureaucracy,” said Thalyssra, with a smile in her voice. “Valtrois was born to rule. The only thing I need to worry about is getting my position _back_ when we return. What about becoming Warchief?”

  
  


Lor’themar shook his head.  “ I won’t lead the Horde this year,  even though Voss and probably a few others have money on it . Our Boy needs  his mother and father; he will never be this small again. After that…” He rubbed his beard thoughtfully. “We’ll see.”

  
  


“The Boy had better have his cradle in Silvermoon, then – but he should be named in Shalassian,” she dropped in, close to his ear, interrupting the musings of power and the future. Lor’themar smiled. 

  
  


“I think our little summit has made enough important decisions for one night, don’t you? That one can wait.”

  
  


T hey were silent for a while, listening to the popping crackle of the fire. The warmth seemed to seep into both of them. 

  
  


_ I want to really get to know you _ , she whispered, mind-to-mind. 

  
  


“Most people do that before they have a child together,” he pointed out, but the objection had little force. The admission of how tired he was, the resolution, the warmth of the fire – _her presence –_ were all pulling him away from any cares of the waking world.

  
  


_ I am beginning to feel that we are a little unusual. _

  
  


“Hm,” Lor’themar muttered, from behind closed lids. There wouldn’t be the towering waters and splintering timber of Nazjatar tonight; the sleep that beckoned was soft, velvet, utterly black. He felt her press her lips to his cheekbone, then nestle into the side of him, drawing the blankets around both of them. 

  
  


_ Al diel shala. _

**_ End _ **

  
  


  
  



End file.
